Soul Calibur MMLXXIV
by Uzziel
Summary: Transcending history and the world, a tale of souls and swords futuristically told.... Rated T for violence. Discontinued.
1. Chapter I

Soul Calibur MMLXXIV

I

_Transcending history and the world, a tale of souls and swords eternally retold…_

Long ago in a perilous age of murder and storm, humanity's fate uncertain in war-torn lands across the shifting seas, the sword had been forged.

Its existence began no better than a typical sword, changing hands every so often, carrying out the very will of its handler without question, without conscious. The sword's existence typical, it seemed fate was not content in the least. For being awash in blood and wickedness for countless years, the fates had granted the weapon a soul to carve a path of its own.

A terrible path, it seemed, splattered in blood and paved by men, cast forever into the inferno at swipe of its horrible blade. Conflict after conflict, war after war it could not get enough; it wanted _more_ – more souls…! Throughout history, the blacksmith's terrible work became of legend.

The "Sword of Heroes", the "Sword of Salvation": Soul Edge.

Once, a great hero had stumbled upon the sword. He took it, feeling the abyss resonating violently in his hands yet his strong will gave him the power to wield it expertly. With the help of the sword, he was able to bring forth peace in his land. In sheer thanksgiving of the ensuing calm, the people of the land hailed him as their king.

In the endless cycles of history, there were those who have opposed such greatness.

Jealous of the monarch's power, the king's very flesh and blood unwittingly took the blade as his own. His spirit immature, the sword devoured his soul, his free will lost to violent impulsivity. Reluctantly, the king had fought against his son, shattering the demonic weapon in a single strike. However, the prince, his own son was lost to him… forever.

The evil blade had vanished, its place in the tome of legends immortalized. Yet someday, the king had feared, the accursed sword would reappear to wreak unspeakable carnage upon the world. The devil's sword needed not to make a return; the evil had to be silenced once and for all! The devastation at the loss of his son gone, the monarch enlisted the help of his kingdom's greatest sage.

The sage had cleansed large fragments of the sword. Taking those very fragments, the king's sage and the king's blacksmiths began work on the forging of a new sword, a sword that would eventually shatter the evil blade for eternity.

The Holy Sword: Soul Calibur.

It had been created finally, but only at the cost of the king's very life. Despite the grief in the land, the Holy Sword had to be protected until the day Soul Edge returned. The king's trusted guardians took up the duty, passing the sword on from generation to generation. When the times came where foolhardy warriors laid claim to the Soul Edge, Soul Calibur appeared to prevent more unspeakable bloodshed from occurring.

Stories of the never-ending struggle between the two blades were passed on from generation to generation, birthing countless legends and fairy tales from _Kusanagi_ to Excalibur.

Through the foibles of man and the flow of the ages, the legend of souls and swords will never die….

---

_Welcome to the new stage of history…_

_---_

"XJ9 – _XJ9_…!"

Jennifer's eyes popped open at the sound of her mother's wavy arpeggio. Day was upon Tremorton already; it was as though it had only been ten-o'clock the last night only a few minutes ago. The morning sun glowed through the blinds warmly, birds chirped beyond her bedroom window, positively. A sharp tug pulled at her back, the tympanums picked up a whirr – and before she knew it, her AC cord was wound tautly back in her reel. With a quick executable, the panel slid shut.

Hopping up to her boots, it was going to be another beautiful day in the year 2074… provided opportunistic aliens did not get in the way… again…!

"Up already, I see." Tacky yellow pumps carried her mother inside her sanctum. Small fingers ensured those coke-bottle frames were square at the peak of her rather… lengthy nose. "Quite refreshing, I have to tell you. Usually I have to unplug you and shove you off the bed myself. Do I have to remind you how horrible that is for me and my s-curve?"

Servos buzzed as Jenny's eyes took a lap around her sockets.

"I know, Mom." She sighed. "I thought you'd be grateful I took initiative for a change. Besides, today's a big day for me and the class!"

"Yes, the field trip to the Tremorton Museum of Natural History." That wild quaff of white bobbed erratically. "It must be as exciting for you as it was for me. Come to think of it, it was probably an inspiration for my career path. To think my parents wanted me to be a dentist – HA!"

"I don't think I have to worry too much 'bout a career choice." She smirked. "Over five years old and already I'm saving the world. Though it'd be nice if Vega Prime _remains_ Vega Prime!"

"Funnily enough, I was going to ask you about that." Her mother blinked.

"About what?" she asked.

"Your life, XJ9." Her mother looked shyly at her pumps. "I wanted to ask you about it. Your goals, your dreams – that sort of thing."

"Oh…?" her brow kinked.

"XJ9…" her old woman shook her head, "_Jenny_, I created you, I raised you. Since piecing together XJ1 to XJ8, I've been there for you. Holding your little claws till I made them into hands, endowing the source codes that you're currently running with protocols and knowledge, I've been there through every struggle even until now. It's really wrong for me to limit you to your model name. You may have been XJ9, but no longer. You practically are – no – _are _my daughter."

"Okay…?" she blinked.

"Don't be a fatalist, that's all I'm saying." Her mother said. "You were original born as a sentry to halt invasion, but your ghost has matured beyond its original programming. The formed metal and circuitry, I don't really even see it anymore. It's like you've become a real person! And as a person, it should be you – not some Space Patrol flunky, government bureaucrat, or even me – who decides what you should do with the rest of your life."

_Mom needs to get out more…_

"That's good, I guess." She dismissed tactfully. Mom was swimming a little to close to the deep end, for her tastes. "But… my 'ghost'?"

"'Ghost in the machine', my dear." She raised a stubby digit knowledgably. "Much like Gilbert Ryle's description where mental activity is different than physical action, and that the interactions between the two are unknown. I coined the term to describe the current status of the interactions between your body and your OS and protocols.

"As I said before, your practically are your sisters XJ1 through XJ8 in terms of programming. It started off as a few rudimentary protocols, like basic movement, that matured through each incarnation of the XJ series. Out of necessity, I had to reuse the same source code over and over – but adding new protocols and applications with every new device and new robot. In a sense, you are using an advanced version of the same OS and protocols as the XJ1.

"But since your initial startup – your birth, so to speak – it seems the programming no longer needed my input."

"Why not…?" she folded her arms.

"I didn't need to!" she beamed. "I knew you were special, Jennifer, even when I was developing you. Since Tuck crashed his ball through the window, your programming began to undergo a perpetual change. Human interaction, through calls-for-service or self-initiated activities, has caused the collecting of numerous data – countless amounts! If you were to write them all down, it would probably take the Library of Congress to hold all the information. Since the data is digital, it's preserved indefinitely, never ageing or deteriorating. The countless bytes of data have begun to collaborate with other bytes of data, merging together, formulating basic algorithms, applications, and executables – all on its own! A learning computer doesn't even begin to describe it! It's more like a human brain! Experience and these newly formed programs have helped shape your personality into what it is today.

"You're more than a mere sentry robot, Jennifer!" the old woman jumped. "Not bound by your protocols at all! Your practically human already!"

"So… this ghost-thing's like my soul?" her hand pressed against her chest plates, tympanums picking up her joints' every whir.

"You could say that." The old woman shrugged. "I'm not one for the supernatural or mumbo-jumbo from those New Age hippies. I deal in science – and before you make a rebuttal, young lady, I've been running diagnostics on your programming. Yes, I have documented evidence that this ghost of yours does exist!"

Mom stuck out her tongue childishly. Jennifer could not help but laugh.

"This is too weird." She shook her head. "Strangely enough, I think this ghost talk's going to make my day's a little brighter. Nice to know I'm more than a robot dog. Thanks Mom."

They hugged. Jenny arms surged with restraint.

"You're welcome, Jennifer." The woman drew her hand down a coat arm strongly. "More than a robot dog but just as greasy…. Remind me to stock up on some silicone cloths."

"_Ugh…!_" she rolled her eyes. "Yes, Mother…."

"So the school is going to the museum today, correct?" Mom drew the other hand down the other arm.

"Well, not the whole school…." She replied. "_My_ class will have first period before boarding the buss. From gossip around the school, we're supposed to have a new student today. So after introductions are given, _then _we'll be off to the museum. Supposedly, we'll be there for most of the day."

"Excellent!" the woman smiled.

"What?" she blinked. "It's just a stupid field trip."

"Be grateful you're getting out of class at all, Jenny." Mom said. "But that's beside the point. As you know, I'm doing some research on the synthesis of new alloys for armor upgrades. I heard the museum has several metallic fragments on display, the exact composition of which remains a mystery. I was wondering if you could snap me some photos of it, pretty please."

"Sure thing, Mom." She nodded. "Just a blink of the old peepers, and you can have as many copies as you want."

"Great." After her hand's journey down the shiny, yellow arm, those coke bottles stole a glance at the band fastened to her wrist. "Oh – it's time for you to leave! I'm sure Brad's waiting for you outside. Hurry up and grab a can of grease from storage."

"Don't worry, I got it covered."

Her hand shot literally for her bedside drawer – approximately five feet beyond her arm reach. Grasping the handle simply, the drawer slid out far enough for the gooseneck cord to snake her hand inside. It slipped out as soon as it dove inside, reeling back into her arm smoothly with a bottle of Quaker State in tow.

"Told you!" she wrenched off the stubborn cap effortlessly. The strength of a million-seventy brutes certainly had its advantages, though she was lucky the whole bottleneck didn't snap off.

Her mother cutely folded her yellow arms.

"_Pf… _showoff!"

If it were not for the oil, she would have laughed.

---

Tremorton High's front doors had parted typically for Jennifer and Brad, as they did for every other teen whose parents had been suckered in by the local district. Narrow, tiled halls were just as crammed as the day before, the school knights in letterman armor making shallow conversation with their fair maidens wrapped tightly in the tapestries of the latest fad. Outcasts of the student body were beside themselves, left to waste away in little colonies of their own making till the morning bell had set them free. A few made Jennifer's plating ring as they brushed her by and into homeroom.

"A school day without the school itself." Brad took to his usual desk in a "cool" slouch. "I thought I'd never see these types of days again. A shame we have to spend it at the museum, though. If I wanted to spend a day in a cold place where I couldn't touch anything, I would've gone and seen Grandma! Back in the days where a class trip entailed a go at the theater… man – you don't really know what you've got till it's gone! Right, Jen?"

"I wouldn't know, really." She took to her desk, shrugging. "I've never really been on one before. The closest thing to a field trip was the robot conventions Mom always dragged me to. I thought there'd be bots just like me. Boy, was I wrong…!"

"Nothing to sweat, Jenny." Brad rubbed at his chin. "Just follow the tour guide, don't touch anything, and probably fill out some dumb paper Teach gives us. If the teach does give us a paper, be sure to fill it out as soon as possible. The rest of the trip will be smooth sailing that way."

"I'll keep it in mind." She nodded.

Shoes clicked on the tile; the inane, boisterous chatter of homeroom was a diminuendo instantly as the teacher made his way inside. His coat found itself on the table's edge, draping off raggedly while his briefcase sat squarely before him. Latches squeaked and soon the case's lid was squarely in sight – only to fall back into place no more than a moment later.

"Good morning, class." the olden man greeted.

"Morning… Mr. Watson." The sleepy class replied in a drawl.

"My, aren't we lively this morning…!" he chuckled softly.

Jennifer's back went straight, her boots crossed and swept underneath her seat.

"Well, that makes one of us." The teacher mused. "Moving on, as you know, this class is going on a field trip today. Permission slips have been signed and your other classes have been notified, but you must be sure to meet with the teachers first thing tomorrow to sort out any assignments that you may and _will_ miss. We'll be gone for most of the school day, you know."

A whisper of suppressed jubilation swept through the class. Even Jennifer's posture eased at the proctor's words.

"Yes, I'm glad to be out of here, too." He grinned. "Too much sterility is not good for the nerves, unless you happen to be a robot."

She frowned; a soft growl escaped her speaker. Cute little quips, the man was always guilty of shooting a couple every which way.

"Take easy, Ms. Wakeman!" the teacher held out his palms. "I'm just joshing with you, that's all. Anyway, the bus is currently en-route here from the barn. While we wait for its arrival, I believe some introductions are in order. It just so happens that our new student will be joining our little expedition today. Please give a warm welcome to your new classmate…

"Sol, you can come in now…!"

The door opened promptly, a clean pair of jeans atop tightly laced sneakers carried in their newfound peer. Despite the color of skin, the teen certainly had some cream in his coffee, so to speak. His lighter pigments a gentle contrast to the light brown blazer with rolled-up sleeves, a cream tank top peeking at the class behind the neat lapels. Dangling oddly from his neck was rather large piece of jewelry; a pendant the size of a small tea saucer neatly inscribed with a sideways eight.

Apparently the boy had seen his share of troubles, a thick band wrapping tautly around his shaved head with a large patch pressing firmly against his left socket. A shame truly that it had to happen. Perhaps his firm gaze would not have been so… _stony_.

"Class," Mr. Watson announced uselessly, the glass half past asleep already, "I would like to introduce you to your new peer, Solomon Al."

"Hello, Solomon…." The class yawned in cadence.

"_Ah-salaamu alaykum._" The boy's hands shifted comfortably in his pockets.

Jenny grinned, her language disks making the appropriate switch.

"_Wa alaykum ah-salaam._" She greeted back.

The boy blinked.

"You speak Arabic?" the new kid asked.

"_Na'am._" Her CD-ROM reverted back quickly. "I just got the Arabic disks about a week ago, Qur'anic, modern-standard, even the regional dialects! With over one billion speakers on the planet, I figured I was long overdue for a language upgrade."

The boy whispered something to Mr. Watson. Certainly her tympanums could have compensated but there was little need for the newcomer to freak out even more. It wasn't everyday that a transfer student could share a class with a fully functional, sociable robot.

"Yes, I believe you just met Global Response Unit XJ9, Sol." Mr. Watson scratched his chin. "Out of common courtesy and the sake of assimilation, everyone prefers to simply call her Jennifer – or Jenny, for short."

"Very well." Solomon nodded. "Jenny, it is. Forgive my shock. It maybe 2074, but my household still has many ways to go before it is able to catch up."

"Understandable." The teacher acknowledged. "Does anyone here have any questions for Sol?"

Silence ensued, a pregnant, hungry silence. The scent of blood fresh in the air, her fellow classmen licked their teeth behind closed lips, gazing intently at their newfound prey. Anything at all, any weakness to exploit, Sol was poised firmly.

"One thing," a lioness made a poke, "from what little _action_ did you get that patch, Cyclops?"

The quick kill denied; the pack instead went for a slower, painful attack. Jenny's arms folded with a _clank_, her hoarse disgust falling upon deafened ears.

"Horrible talk such as that smells like a mandatory term paper, Ms. Martel." Mr. Watson's case jumped when his hands slammed against his desk. "That goes for the rest of the class! I won't let Sol's first day degenerate into an episode of Jerry Springer. In fact, how that head of formaldehyde is floating around still is beyond me!"

"Mr. Watson." Jenny raised her hand, her tympanums catching a sort of hissing squeal. "I think the bus just pulled up."

"Yes." The man took a glimpse through the nearby window. "I see it on the curb. Very well. Place all stuff on your desks into your backpacks. I will be locking this room, and when we return, you can simply grab your bags and head for home immediately. Now Sol, I know this is your first day, but would you care to join us for our trip?"

"Yes sir." The boy's hands slipped out from his pockets. "I would…."

Her eyes caught a sharp glint from the boy's wrist, almost painful, if she could feel. Wrapped around his wrist was a shinny chain, brilliant links interlocking tightly throughout its length to the toggles, yet it wasn't what caught her eyes. The toggle itself appeared rather odd; her irises could not help but whir gently as the piece grew bigger in her sight. For through a simple metallic loop dangled a rather wicked looking scythe, its faux belly as sharp as its glare.

"Oh – _cool_…!" her lids parted further. "Now that's what I call a toggle!"

"Huh…?" Brad said quizzically.

"Oh – nothing." Motors whirred furiously as her sight pulled back into normalcy. "I think Sol's got a killer bracelet, though."

"You would say that, too…!" Carbuncle mused.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she folded her arms in a huff.

"Nothing, Jen." He slipped smoothly away from his seat, shaking his head. "Let's get going. The only one who's going to get the back seat is I!"

"Yeah." She sniggered. "Okay."

---

"Tremorton High's Biology 1 class," their shapely guide announced proudly, "you have just experienced a day in the life of the North American Fall Webworm! I hope that you've found this experience to be most beneficial. Follow me back to your proctor, if you please…!"

Bradley did, following closely to the babe in the button-down shirt as comfortably possible, eager to show the day's idiotic monotony his backside. It was fun for the first five minutes, his eyes catching all the forest motif they wandered across, the hustle and bustle behind the doors lost in nature's music – as arranged by the curators. Yet did he ever so long for his family's set, eager to keep his promise to keep an eye on it as the group neared the exhibit's pupa stage. A half a day spent would please the good teacher, certainly.

If it were not to be, the completed activity sheet crumpled in his grip would surely do the trick.

Jenny, on the other hand, had been beside herself in childlike wonderment the whole time. Drinking gladly in from knowledge's fountain, she did, all with a simple look around. A product of lean-production in sheer awe of the beauty found in the sheer primal; who would have thought it possible?

_Guess things are different when the robot actually has consciousness._

"Nature…!" her glossy eyes were wide. "So primal, so simple and yet so very complex! It seems everything is in perfect balance. Everything must play its part. The entire system depends upon even the tiniest creature, or even the simple pleasures outside this building would be lost. Be safe, little webworm, for even you carry the burden of Atlas upon your exoskeleton!"

The class behind dismissed her with a collective huff.

"God, she is a freak!" His ears caught the words of a girl.

"This is the part where she and all the Dyson vacuums take over and enslave us!" came the words of another.

Jenny's head dropped, a sigh of defeat escaping her voice box.

"Forget about them, Jen." He, too, dismissed the crowd behind with a flick of the hand. "They're still back in the year 2068. They wouldn't know a freak even if one bit them where the sun can't shine."

"Indeed…."

The new kid said closely. Brad looked – and there he was right beside, from out of nowhere!

"_Whoa!_" He nearly jumped. "The heck did you come from?"

"Walk right past me." The boy said simply, his hands in his pockets still. "See right through me and no one even knows I'm here."

"It seems the least we can do is call you 'Mr. Cellophane'." Jenny giggled.

"Huh…?" his brow kinked. "Mr. what…?"

"Oh!" those big eyes blinked. "Right…. Stupid turn-of-the-millennium tracks! I love my mother, but I draw the line when she uses me like her own CD player."

"Talk 'bout freaks of a feather…!" a voice behind chirped in needlessly.

"As your friend said before," Sol said, "pay them no mind. I believe what you said was very beautiful – and intriguing."

"Intriguing?" Jenny asked back.

"Indeed." That shaved head nodded. "You are a robot, forgive my bluntness. The robots I have seen thus far are nothing more than mere automations, robots programmed with the basics of basics. But you are different, _very _different. Your tangent before was blossoming with sheer wonderment, as though you had just left a tunnel for the very first time. Despite your circuitry and metal, it is like there is a real person deep inside of you."

"Oh – cut it out…!" she giggled. "You'd make me blush if I could."

"That's our Jenny!" the panels at her shoulder chilled his clasping palm refreshingly. "She full of surprises, and we wouldn't have her any other way."

Though winding corridors and crossing catwalks aplenty, Brad's squinting eyes caught sight of the group's destination: a coat dangling raggedly from the crook of its folded arm and a briefcase clutched in a stubby grip. He could just make out the elaborate etching of the vest buttons before his guide's hips ceased their provocative rolling.

"Good afternoon, Class." The teacher greeted warmly.

"Afternoon… Mr. Watson…." Came the group's reply, sleepy and unmotivated as ever.

"I hope you enjoyed the exhibit as much as I did the museum's quaint atrium café." The stocky man chortled sneakily as the guide made her way past, Brad's eyes never to ogle those hips again. "That reminds me! Your sheets please…."

A groan swept the crowd above the crumpling, rustling papers. One by one, each of the victims reluctantly handed in their warrants, the collective GPA doomed certainly. Brad had to be thankful Mr. Watson was kind enough so to grade on the curve.

"Thank you, class." Mr. Watson cracked open his case. The half-crumpled stack shoved in between the leathery jaws troublesomely enough. "I should remind you that these little _blow-off_ sheets are certainly worth a lot of points!"

The crowd moaned painfully.

"I knew I should've stayed home today…!" a lettermen jacket rubbed at his head.

"Well, well…!" the man took a look at the band on his wrist. "It seems that the exhibit let you out early. I hope your grades don't suffer because of it. Either way, y'all are just going to wait till Monday to see the results. Either way, we have ninety minutes before the driver gets back from his break. Knowing this now, I encourage each of you to explore this wonderful sanctuary of knowledge, regardless of its type. But be sure to meet back here in exactly an hour-twenty from now. Now _vamoose_! I've got a latte to drink."

Like rats, the class behind scattered in all directions. They didn't need to be told twice, apparently. Mr. Watson turned on a little heel, strolling his way back to the café table where a lone cup sat idly.

"And then there were three…!" Jenny shrugged.

"Thank God." He replied. "Hope my grades will be OK when next week comes. It's not like my GPA's set in stone, you know."

"Stone…?" those shiny eyes blinked. "Oh – that reminds me! Hey Brad, you want to come along with me? I've got to take some pictures of some dumb fragments—"

"Fragments!" Sol's shiny head shot up.

"Whoa – no need to freak out!" he took a step back. "Probably a piece of the Titanic or something."

"Actually, no one knows what they are." Jenny said. "Mom is hoping to take a crack at it herself. We won't be there for long. All we need is a few snap shots. I believe the light my internal cameras catch will be enough for some basic spectral analysis."

"Heck, why not?" He shrugged back. "Unless that guide makes a second pass, this isn't my scene. You never know, I might spy a vixen on the way."

"Men and their games…." Jenny shook her head irritably. "Care to tag along, Sol? Not like you have anything else to do, right?"

"Certainly." His only eye blinked. "I would like to see these fragments myself."

"Alright!" Jen's hips clanged when her knuckles met them. "Then we're off… to-find-the-directory-'cause-I-don't-know-where-to-go…!"

Brad could not help but roll his eyes.

---

There they were, angled and uplifted by thin pedestals behind all-encompassing glass. A sickly, bloodshot eye gazed back at him hotly, its sheen brilliant and blinding.

For Phil, it had to be it. A fragment of one of the great legends of history, a never-ending tale of souls and swords retold for all the centuries before. The time had been long, his devotion unwavering in the quest for ultimate knowledge. All that time in the library, those many sleepless nights spent reading in the basement; it was worth it considering destiny – _his_ destiny. The culmination of which, the very turning point of his life was conveniently placed before him.

_No one will ever tease me as a newcomer again! My paladin's meager level five will jump a hundred-fold, for sure!_

Of Dungeons and Dragons, Phil would become a god! Yet in order for one to usher in his apotheosis, one must not be content with the mere status quo. No, one must begin to think outside the box, to throw oneself completely into his cause, no matter how lost it may seem! To face down the foul darkness of one's blackened heart and even through a pact with the throne of Hell, as so far to become that which he hates, which he fears the most – only _then_ can he achieve deserved godhood!

If only Mr. Gygax could see dearest Philip Watkins now….

Everyone else could, the occasional hapless passerby and those who've come to pay their respects to the fragments, the very key to his ascension. An audience! The time couldn't be riper. Even Tremorton's resident superhero, the physical manifestation of Dr. Wakeman's genius, came to see the spectacle. "She" even winked at him, her dark iris flickering behind her rapidly blinking eyelid—

But the Cyclops "she" was with gazed back at him something foul, a disparaging grimace as though he were wise to the scheme. The boy mouthed something through the glass – which, by some odd reason, he could understand!

_I place my curse upon you, you whom know not of which you trifle…_

He was of the rival clan come to sabotage the ritual; it had to be! He couldn't put it off any longer, not with the threat of failure hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles. Everything relevant from his studies was fresh in his mind, a late night cram session paid off in full. The books he had read hadn't failed him in the past and there was no reason they would fail him now!

"Now!" his palm flattened against the glass

He had shouted. The people around gazed upon him strangely, typical for such ignorant mortals… ignorant, useless, worthless mortals! Even the robot and "her" two buddies had their brows in a kink.

"Secret art!" he continued unabated. "Soul Absorption—!"

The glossy pupil entrapped within the glass blossomed – Phil knew something went wrong, horribly, terribly wrong!

---

The strange kid across the display pressed his palm against the glass and let out a shout – no sooner did he that he immediately fell behind the display in a writhing heap!

"_No…!_" the kid's words clawed their way out of his strangled throat. "_Why?_"

People nearby went for the boy, their helping hands taking the reach – only to be forced away violently. The backsides of some slid to a stop on the marble floor while others were not as fortunate, falling to the floor in broken heaps after they met closely with surrounding fixtures. The glass encasing shattered. Flying shards ringed against her panels before they had the chance to embed inside her friends.

"Everyone okay—?"

From the other side of the display came a noise to which her tympanums had never caught. It was like that of a grizzly bear, its timbre thick with endless reverberations—

Something slammed upon the jarred display, a large, bloody hand that caused the shards to leap. Crimson oozed generously from out the wounds, too many for just the glass to have caused. Jagged, white bone peeked at her from the gashes until she realized the wounds were not of entry or of compound. Instead, those bizarre, jagged, white outcroppings had actually torn through the flesh…

And up the hand's owner followed, his body just as bloody and _bony._ His clothes had been rendered into red-soaked shreds instantly. Head practically shed of its hair, a few lifeless tresses flapped over an eye. Eyes of color gone, clouded over into a milky film, yet he… _it _leered at her eagerly, hungrily. It grinned, the twisting mouth like that of a great white, ragged with an uneven coat of red smeared across the jagged enamel.

"What…?" she shook her head, her gyroscopes knocked senseless still. "What _are_ you…?"

In that strange, beastly growl, the thing replied.

"OFFER_ YOUR SOULS!_"


	2. Chapter II

II

Jenny was at a loss for words, the language databases coming up a sheer blank. A nerdish boy once swathed in wearable "fandom" now towered its hulking, bleeding frame over her head. The textile unicorn impaled; horrifically, the jagged, reddened spikes of protruding bone inched out further still. Rising and falling, the breath was ripe with CO2 and compounds that read a bit like decomposition. Eagerly, a slick piece of ragged red slid over the shark-like teeth.

"Dude, 'Doomsday' was _so_ pre-millennium…!" Brad joked, nervously.

"Offer _YOUR SOULS!_" it screamed again, the marble cracking underfoot in the wake of its stomp.

It raised its talons – a puff misty blue caught her eye. It hovered closely over a fallen passerby; the man was practically engulfed in the sparkling mist. So was another unfortunate, and another… practically all of them! The haze lifted from their bodies suddenly, lifting as high as twenty feet, merging together as a sparkling cloud. Shimmering incandescently under the building's fluorescents, it was quite beautiful—

The thing suddenly brought down its nasty arms, crossing them. The cloud deepened harshly in color, the sparkling wonder gone in an instant. Twisting and twirling, it spun itself into a funnel cloud so intense the rest had no choice but to follow straight down inside the freak's terrible maw. The mouth clamped shut with a simple lick of the chops.

A quick look around, the fallen people around hardly looked alive….

She wanted to see herself, to see if they were really…! She could not say it. She wanted to check it out, but she could not. Bradley already beat her to it, cradling a poor girl's head in his arms. Her pacemaker nearly stopped. A hand slid over those delicate features; the girl looked to be of a mere ten years time. The girl cannot be gone, could she…?

Brad shook his head solemnly; the hasty processing confirmed. Gently, he carefully laid her back down to rest eternally.

"She's dead…!" the hydraulics was acting up; air was trapped inside, it seemed. "They're… they're all _DEAD!_"

Nature's latest freak fell to its knees suddenly, the cracked marble trembling violently. Every hapless passerby around was quick to depart, the hint not taken subtly. Quickly did those nasty hands clutch at its oversized chest!

"More…!" it breathed haggardly. "Need more – _SOULS!_"

"_You…!_" She seethed harshly, digits curling into her palm with an irritated _tang_.

The jets hidden in her pigtails took the lead, launching her whole body for her newfound target. Things were going to get messy, definitely…!

"I'll frigging _CRUSH YOU!_"

---

A leap in the air, a flaming crackle, and Jenny was after the bony freak in a heartbeat. The battle would be fierce, definitely. It would not be long till the whole museum floor became a desolate no-man's land, and little interest Bradley had to see it come to pass.

"Come on, Sol!" he took the kid's arm into his grip tightly, yanking him to his feet. "We're getting out of here!"

Solomon shook his head, disgustedly.

"The shards…." the boy rubbed at his patch, sorely. Exasperated, he appeared. "So - that really was—!"

"Tell me 'bout it later!" the boy was in an awkward tow as they – _he_ – made a run for the nearby door. "Let's go!"

---

Crushed the monster, she did not.

An hour long past and the pristine battlefield was a dilapidated wreck. Beautiful marble tiles smashed, priceless items displayed haphazardly around the premises in worthless shards alongside cracked, broken glass, and tomes of unique, invaluable knowledge were lost, indefinitely. The damage had to have been in the billions; an insurance company would no doubt close its doors for the final time within the week.

Jennifer was not sure if she was going to see that day. By fate's twist bizarre, the _bony_ freak had the upper hand, tossing her around the vacant halls and corridors like a doll when it did not smash her through a wall. Trusty weapons proved useless, bouncing off that impaled unicorn like rubber. Her cannons' beams and lasers simply fizzled out on impact. The freak once had placed a hand on one of its nasty protrusions and simply yanked it free… dragging with it a jagged length of massive bone. Only then did things get real _interesting._

The swordfight had ended quickly with her backside smashing through yet another case on display. Weapons of old toppled free, clanging onto the cracking tile painfully with a few ringing vacantly against her paneling. Weapons, weapons everywhere, rifles, sabers, and swords of variety, and hardly one that would work against the lumbering monstrosity before her.

It let out a demonic cackle, licking its blushing, jagged chops. Eyeing that imposing piece of unbreakable bone, her hand could not help but scrape against the tile for something – _anything!_

"Ha – ha – Ha – _HA!_" it laughed. "Defeated, you are! Now you will become part of _ME!_ I have waited for this day too long…! Offer your soul – throw it into the abyss so I may feed once more!"

"Once more…?" she groaned.

"_Yes…!_" it hissed hungrily. "How long I was forced to fast – my primal needs unmet! Today was most fortunate. Thanks to this wayward soul, I engaged in my own personal feast of fast breaking! Sadly, these pitiful mortals are not enough to satisfy me! A new age shall fall upon these lands, I tell you, dearest child of armor. An age of terror and chaos!"

Her pinky finger stopped in the midst of his slide, her stressed limb moving not at all. Climbing atop, the digit rattled against the thin, short surface of the object. Her databases instantly clicked, the object confirmed.

"Chaos…?" she blinked weakly, her power core hard pressed for energy. "Terror…?"

"Rejoice, shall I!" it grinned, its shark mouth gleaming with a runny coat of red. "You shall be my first of many sacrifices to come! Make peace with your fickle gods, dearest child of armor!"

The freak lifted the bone above its head, poised to strike. Quickly, her curling digits scooped up the grip of the sword. The freak already was up on the balls of its dirty, popped sneakers. Her chances exponentially shrinking , the only shot may have been long, but it was all she had left!

Its oozing hands took the lead, the bone's final swing begun. Servos whirred loudly as her eyes clamped shut; she couldn't watch. Its final move had been made, and so had—

—"YOUR SOUL IS MINE, CHILD OF AR_MOR_—!" —

—Hers.

Her eyes opened through the sound of the motors, the freak's ragged mouth agape, quivering erratically. Its cloudy eyes were as wide as saucers. At the shoulder, her eyes trailed up her arm's length, rolling over her wrist and knuckles and up the sword's fixtures. All they way, did she gaze incredulously – _appallingly_, even at the point where the blade had pierced – had actually _pierced_ its way inside her target.

_Oh my—!_

Gravity made itself known, the ragged unicorn reluctantly accepted more of the blade. The bloody bone useless, it clattered loudly on the ground. Those two hulking, brooding arms flopped lifelessly at its sides; its head dropped sharply against its peeking collarbones, the jaw quivering nevermore. Nature's force took possession of the body when she simply angled the weapon awkwardly, the creature's weight doing the rest.

Slowly, she pushed herself to her boots, every frayed wire and stressed joint and structure asserting itself throughout her body. It had been a long time since she had endured such a conflict. Despite her weapons, skill, and strength, never before had she been so utterly helpless, so scared…. She could not help but take a look at her hands, those palms and digits of a pristine sheen.

After today, however, certain logic in the back of her RAM hinted that these very hands would never be as pearly again….

"Jenny…!" Bradley called, the distantly faint voice thickening ever so quickly. "Jenny! Where are you?"

"Over here…!" her voice broke, the sheer uncertainty fresh.

"Ah-HA!" footsteps aplenty fell hurriedly closer until their owners stopped a mere yard beside. "There you are, Jenny. Are you okay?"

"Still around and kicking…." Her smirk's curl weak, eyes never leaving those soiled, fouled palms. "Unlike someone I could mention."

"Holy cow!" Brad finally caught sight of her handiwork, words escaping his grasp most certainly. Solomon too had little to say, simply a mere gasp parting those thick lips. "Is it really…?"

"I… I – don't know…!" her palms trembled. "I never really – HAD to before…!"

Flecks of marble crunched beneath when her knees rang out against the floor. She nearly kissed the cracked stone if those dirty hands had not caught her swiftly. Her vision blurred and snowy, her head shook violently. A broad, generous flow of oozing, deepening red inched by closely. Around her palms, pooling thickly between her fouled digits, a crackled sob escaped her speaker.

"No…!" she shook her head fiercely. "_NO!_ I should've held out longer! I could've used a stunner or something – _anything!_ But not this! Not like this…. I should be the one drowning in my own puddle – _I_ should be offline, not him! _Damn it!_"

The puddle pooled deeper in the small pockmark of her hand's making.

"_Damn it!_" she cursed again. "The hell is it all for?"

"I don't know, Jenny—" Brad couldn't finish.

She wouldn't let him.

"_EXACTLY!_" her red fist met the marble again. "The HELL DO YOU KNOW, BRAD? Have you killed someone before? Do _you_ know what it's like? Don't tell me it's nothing! It sure as hell meant something to this poor sap! He was so young…. He'll never laugh, cry, or be angry ever again. And it's all my fault!"

"I don't know what to tell you, Jen." Brad said simply, as though all were right with the world. "I honestly don't. All I know really know it's time to go. I'm sure Mrs. Wakeman will know what to say."

"I doubt it." Her sniff was like static.

"Either way, we'd better get you home." He said. "The sooner, the better…."

"Yeah…." She sighed. "Whatever…."

---

Twilight had conquered the sky boldly; it seemed daylight made the window blinds glow a just a few minutes ago. That was to be expected when one shut herself off from the world outside as she did, sulking up to her sanctuary the minute she set boot into her home. Mother called after her, of course, but had not since Brad had followed her inside a moment later. They had been talking quite a while, it seemed.

"Jennifer…?"

_Speak of the devil…!_

"Jennifer." Her mother called. "Open the door, please. I just want to talk."

"Not – interested." Her rump poked deeper into the mattress as her arms wrapped tightly around her knees.

"Come now, young lady." Mother pressed. "Open up! Is it wrong for a mother to console her daughter after trauma?"

"Yes!" she huffed. "You probably came to pull my plug, anyway. I would too. I know that I wouldn't want a murderer for a daughter!"

"Jenny!" her old woman yipped. "While I respect your privacy, your emancipation stage a little down the road and all - but I'm enacting upon my duties as a responsible parent by coming in anyway…!"

The lock opened with a rattling _POP_, the door squealing with foreboding.

"I've really got to grease these dreadful things…!" the woman noted aloud.

_Grease_, how appropriate…! Her bed bounced as the woman took a seat beside, subtle movement of the trademark coat a dry squelch. Proximity sensors bleated within her head. Shutdown permanently and reduced to scrap in hours, it could not be over soon enough….

…Pulling her into a hug, hands of flesh placed firmly on the shoulder and nothing more…

…Or not.

"Uh… what're you doing?" she shot the funny old woman a suspicious eye.

"Hugging, you dolt!" the old lady pulled away suddenly, a stern frown her reply. "Have private displays of affection suddenly become outlawed? I hardly think so."

"You… haven't come to shut me down, then?" she blinked incredulously.

"Don't be ridiculous, XJ9!" those stubby fingers ringed bluntly against her crown. "That is absolutely the _last_ thing I would ever do! If that were true, there would definitely be more members of the XJ series than I could dream of."

"You don't get it!" she exclaimed. "I'm a murderer! I've only been around for a little more than five years, and already I killed someone! What's going to happen in another five years? How many more am I going to ax—?"

Another blunt ringing in her head, the head itself suddenly was snapped sideways. A look at her the strange old woman did that yellow-swathed arm recoil.

"Stop it, XJ9!" Mother rubbed at her fingers, gingerly. "While the end result is similar, murder and killing are not synonymous. Do not forget it was that freak of nature that made the first move, _murdering _those helpless bystanders! How many more would've fallen by those freakish hands if you hadn't stopped him for good?"

"Another thing…." She drew a hand down her cheek. "He wouldn't have murdered at all if _I_ made the first move. I just stood there like a dope while it all went down, all those people gone forever because…. I don't even know why…! This whole city probably hates me now."

"There was no way you could've known beforehand, Jenny." The old woman said. "No one ever does, no matter how much you try. You can hope only for minor improvements at best."

"So what do I do then…?" she asked. "What do you want me to do?"

"Live, Jennifer." The woman shrugged simply. "That's all anyone on this planet can do. That's all I have to say about it."

"I guess." She sighed.

She returned the hug, politely.

"Your ghost needs some time to adjust, most certainly." The woman nodded. "The raw data must be processed and properly allocated into your ROM. Actually, most people do need time to themselves after these sorts of things. Oh – and this may not be the time to ask, but did you happen to snap a few photos of those fragments?"

"Yeah, just before the day hit the shredder." She gave her noggin a tap. "It's all up here, but I could really use an acid bath right about now."

"Knock yourself out, dear." The woman pushed up to her pumps. "But before I forget, I've got something to tell you."

"Gee, can't wait to hear this…." Servos buzzed as her eyes took a lap around the sockets.

"I'm afraid you must." Mother said. "About a half-hour ago, I got a phone call from Mr. Watkins' mother. She wants to speak with you, personally tomorrow concerning her son's sudden… _departure._"

"Oh – do I _have_ to…?" she moaned.

"Yes, Jennifer, you must." The woman nodded. "But focus only on your bath tonight and nothing else. You can deal with this day's events as it comes up tomorrow."

"Oh - okay…!" she sighed. "Just for you… and myself, as well."

The woman smiled.

"That a girl…!"

"_Oy!_" her pillow made a _poof_ when her face dropped into it.

---

Too soon was day upon his friend; the sleep cycle had completed exactly three hours ago at seven-o'clock. Begrudgingly, the covers had flipped off her form, her small breakfast of Quaker State practically inhaled, and boots had carried her out the door gradually at nine. The walk to the Watkins' household, the path of the damned was a lengthy one, no more than an hour across the town on foot. Too long, too unnerving if it were a burden she had to carry alone.

Thankfully, Bradley's Saturday was free.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this, Brad?" the robot asked. "It's me Mrs. Watkins wants to… _speak_ with, not you. In fact, I should be doing this alone."

"Fear not, Jen." He smiled. "I'm here for you. And if the lady should pull something, I've got your back."

"Like you did with the rock aliens…?" that tin brow kinked. "That was fun… _not!_"

"So I wanted to help more!" he shot back. "Can you blame a guy?"

"I guess not." Her smile was weak. "You came through in the end, and thank goodness you did!"

"That am true." he smiled back. "I knew the paper mills were still around for some reason!"

"That reminds me," she said thoughtfully, "has Space Patrol been giving you trouble recently."

"Nope." His head shook firmly. "I believe they're filling out the proper paperwork in quadruplicate, still. If it takes them as long as it took me, they should fill out the last form sometime in 2084. _Then_ we can worry."

"I'm actually more worried 'bout today than those flunkies." She said. "I'm no mother. I have no children of my own, yet I took the life of one yesterday. I have no data in storage how a distraught mother would act, but I can surmise it's not going to be pretty."

"Nothing definite to say she is distraught." He replied simply. "Then again, there's nothing to say she is not distraught. We're just going to have to see for ourselves when we get there."

"Looks like we're going to find out soon enough." Her head dropped, large, black eyes focused on the pavement passing underneath. "I believe that's the house over there."

Another cookie-cutter house adrift in the midst of a rolling sea of suburbia, squarely it was before them when they made the turn. A starter home typical of unscrupulous developers, it blended perfectly into the utter triteness of the city's limits. The path before them led straight onto the "porch" of cement. The face of the house was flat and uninspired; undulated, it was with the most unsightly siding the sight of which he had never before laid eyes upon. The flowerbox of forget-me-nots beneath the bay window was left insignificant.

_Stuck in this house, I can see why Phil went berserk…_

Procrastination far behind, Jennifer nervously placed one boot in front of the other, and again… and again with he right behind, his promise met yet not in full. Upon placing foot upon the porch, he took to her cool side as a thick finger of metal depressed the doorbell switch. The bell rang out slowly in a thick, worrying drawl.

Ask not, did he, for whom the bells had tolled, for it had tolled for dear Jenny—

The lock rattled sharply, suddenly, as did the deadbolt squarely above. Weather-stripping scraped as the door opened to a floor lined with a rich color of ash. A pair of flats stood firmly on the stained planks, a sundress of yellow draping a couple feet above those exposed insteps and off the small shoulders of a short, curly-haired auburn. In her middle age, thick wires traced squares around her squinted, green eyes.

"Uh – hi, Mrs. Watkins…." Jenny's words stumbled over each other. "I'm Jennifer Wakeman. This is… uh…!"

"Bradley Carbuncle." He lifted a hand peaceably.

"Hmm…." The lady checked her wristwatch. "Right on time, I see. Good, I like a punctual group of people. Please, come in. We've so much to talk about."

They complied each with a nod. Jenny took the lead, placing a boot onto the rich brown floor – only to be halted by one of the woman's firmly extended palm.

"I know you're a robot designed as a sentry," the woman said, "but I must insist you be careful on my hardwood. The stain is no more than a week old, you see."

"Don't worry, Jen." One by one, his fingers yanked of his loafers. "I'll take it from here."

His sweeping arms took her by surprise. Her speaker let out a yelp as he scooped her up close to his chest, the backs of her knees clinging to an arm as her arms wrapped around his neck. Gratefully, he did thank Mrs. Wakeman for constructing the girl from the most durable, _lighter_ alloys ever made, walking the both of them through the narrow passage straight into the family room. There he made her place on the couch before he took a seat himself.

"Good boy!" she gingerly tapped him on the head.

"Oh brother…." His eyes rolled.

"Thank you." The woman took her place in a high-back easy chair. "If you've come expecting a rabid mother hen, I must disappoint you. What happened yesterday has happened and couldn't happen any other way. My son is lost forever at your hands, I know. I hate that I have to say it that way, but I found no other way to say it nicely. But you've shown great character by coming here today. For that, I am grateful."

Jenny let out a sigh thick with sudden relief.

"So why've you asked us here today, Mrs. Watkins?" he asked promptly.

"Because I want to hear what happened yesterday through your perspective, your eyes." The woman said. "I was at the coroner's office yesterday to confirm Phil's body. What a mess he became in just one day. An autopsy is pending, but the cause of his sudden mutilation could not have been nano-machine induced. If it were, a very distinctive electromagnetic resonance would've been apparent – so the coroner told me."

"That's very true." Jenny put a digit to her chin. "I may've been tossed around like a doll, but my diagnostics found no EM interference at all. It was like he too was over 1,000,070-strong!"

"Indeed." The woman nodded. "I know you were there, in the museum, when little Phil freaked out. What exactly happened? What was he doing before this sudden mutation and mass murder?"

"Well…." Jenny took in a deep breath. "After my class tour was done, Brad, another, and I were looking at these shards…."

The explanation took little over half an hour.

"…And he was dead, just like that." She shook her head. "No suffering, no nothing. The blade must've run through his heart, a one-in-a-million shot. Tremorton PD then showed up, too late to be of any use as always. We gave our statements and got the heck out of there. I felt so bad afterwards I was ready to shut myself down, honest."

"I see…." The woman shook her head. "That little twit never learned."

"Never… learned?" he blinked.

"You mean he did this before…?" she too followed suit.

"Yes." She nodded grimly. "Always shut himself off in his basement room, in a perpetual delirium of swords and sorcery when he wasn't working at Mezmer's. That's all he ever did, writing fanciful stories of magic knights and devilish barons. They were quite good, actually. I did tell him to get at least one of them published, so he'd have a career and all. But I guess Dungeons and Dragons proved too good a distraction. I knew there was something wrong with all those board games and books, something I didn't like. Now Phil's delusions of grandeur have cost this whole family, dearly! If only I had set more limits for him as a child…!"

Understandably, the woman should have yet she cried not.

"It doesn't matter anymore, I guess." The woman shook her head. "Phil's in a better place, I hope. Maybe I'll meet him there again someday."

Jenny's eyes crossed, understandably; Brad would have to explain it later.

"That's all we have to say about yesterday, Mrs. Watkins." Brad said. "That's all we have to say because it's all we _can_ say. I hope you've found some solace."

"Wait." The woman leaned forward. "You're not leaving, are you?"

"Well… yeah." He shrugged. "Unless there's something else you'd like."

"There is, in fact." That cap of curly auburn bobbed, dried, gnarled fingers pushed those squared framed back up her button nose. "A recital of yesterday isn't all that I called Mrs. Wakeman for."

"Really…?" Jenny blinked.

"Yes." The woman continued. "My son may be dead, yet we've no idea who or what exactly caused his sudden mutilation or complete shift in personalities. I sense dark forces at work here."

"But Mrs. Watkins," he held up his hands, "we're the furthest thing from occult detectives there are! We deal more with the tangible than anything else."

"Please Mr. Carbuncle… Ms. Wakeman…!" the woman laced tensely her fingers together. "For my sake…!"

"But—!"

"Please – _PLEASE!_" she cried. "Please find out what happened to my boy…! Please…."

"Yes, Mrs. Watkins." Jenny pushed to her boots, leaving behind ovoid prints on the squishy carpet as she walked for the woman. The two embraced, genuinely. "I may not know much about the intangible, but I'll give it my best. I owe that much to you, at least."

"Thank you." The auburn pushed gently away. "Mrs. Wakeman should be proud of a creation such as yourself."

"Yeah…." The girl of metal smiled warmly. "I think she is."

"Oh, look at myself." The woman laughed shakily. "I'm a mess. Thank God my eyeliner didn't run today, I have to go and meet with the Tremorton's finest today in a few minutes. Before I go, let me show you to Phil's room. You can start there."

"Yeah," Jenny nodded, "okay."

"Follow me."

The lady graced them with her backside, walking coolly away and down the narrow hall. They followed suit, trailing behind by a polite couple of feet. At the foot of the cramped stairwell, the woman made a left – only to immediately halt beside a bland, white door. Taking the handle in hand, she opened it wide and her flats began the descent down the drab, olive steps. Jenny's boots plodded their way down the steps before those ovoid soles crunched on solid pavement.

"This was Philip's room," the lady's arm swept out, "the late dungeon master's lair."

A dark, dank cellar underground, what it lacked in imposing rods of iron and thick shackles it more than made up in sheer atmosphere. Setting loafers firmly on the pavement, it was as though the two had stepped into a world completely different than that beyond the deep, barren wells of steel just outside. Dragons and slayers, mages and sages, a true connoisseur's wet dream dappled the barren walls on glossy sheets no larger than a portrait. An Ouija board sat idly on a simple fold out table, ironically silent, the planchette pale with a definite layer of dust. Next to it, a ball of crystal shined, incandescently.

"I never liked these things, to begin with!" the woman's face twisted in disgust. "Would hardly be shocking if Phil's sudden departure had something to do with some object hidden in his room. I should've never have let his 'friend' introduce him to such rubbish."

"Knights and dragons, soothsayers and mages." Jenny's black eyes boggled, overwhelmed by art. "The images are spectacular. What store did he buy this from?"

"No store." The woman shook her head. "Outside of art supplies. Philip was a talented artist – he should've gone into comics! Phil himself did most of the posters you see in this room. Complaining it was too cold, he took initiative and thought that the posters would help insulate the basement a little better - not unlike how tapestries were used during the Middle Ages. One thing led to another, and soon an entire wall was covered with his work.

"This is why I brought you down here, especially you, Ms. Wakeman. My eyes aren't at all what they used to be. Perhaps you two could find something that I haven't, something that would click with you when it won't with me. A friend in the Tremorton PD said that the detectives would be here as soon as this evening. Considering the country's 'new-and-improved Constitution', they won't need a warrant, paying the typical oath no mind! This place _will_ be trashed, and any real clues as to yesterday's freak out will be gone. Please, do what you can and find out something… _anything_!"

"And what if we do find something?" he asked.

"I'd rather not know, immediately." The woman said. "Please, Jennifer, keep whatever findings locked safely in your memory banks. We'll talk a while after the detectives had their fun."

Without a second thought, the woman turned on her low heel and clomped up the stairs. The door hidden above opened – only to close a moment later, steps a quieting staccato until the empty roar of the furnace swallowed them whole.

"You heard Mrs. Watkins, Brad." Jenny folded her arms intently. "Let's get to work!"

"What?" he threw up his hands. "Look at this place! Where the heck do we even _begin?_"

"Under the table, the alphabet board, some drawers…!" she shrugged. "Anyplace. Let's think of places where Phil would choose to hide stuff."

"The fridge's vegetable drawer?" he shrugged back.

"Sure, that's subtle like a flying tack hammer." Jenny moved over toward the hutch, round head looming over the cramped desk intently. "I'll start over here. Have a look by the bookcase, would you?"

Bobbing a simple nod, his slacks complacently carried him toward that towering piece. Both wider and taller than he, a side angled up a tic higher than the other, the olden case appeared as though it were to tumble on him if he were to even tap a single tome. Philip must have thought similarly, spinal colors and sizes a plentiful variety yet all were brushed thickly with a coat of dust. Collective themes were mishmash, everything from Beowulf and the _middangeard _of Tolkien philology to volumes of sheer D&D strategy

Trapped evermore in endless corridors of a twisted creation, sanity unraveling in a mind no longer _human_: the tragedy of dear Philip Watkins—

Deep between the strange volumes something did catch his eye. Thick spine leather bound, dyed a rich black and trimmed with flecked leaves of gold; it glinted at him cleanly. A trace of dust nowhere to be found its texture, it must have been used recently. Curiosity would have to kill him later, for a finger angled the book out by the top of the spine. Characters of English crafted in the same golden leaf glinted clearly in his eyes.

_Forgotten Legends, Volume One…_

Thumbs took the lead, prying the pages apart. The purposefully vague title fresh in his mind, he had little choice but to look.

Page after page, chapter after chapter he skimmed – and soon it appeared that his effort was in vain. Inscribed cleanly in Times New Roman were some of the most inane, inconsequential rumors and here-says he had ever laid eyes upon. What idiot honestly believed that the Holy Grail was a coffee mug with the name _Yehoshua _written plainly – in _English_, of all tongues? And just who the heck was Ronald Burgundy anyway…?

A simple check of the copyright at the very front of the book and suddenly the whole thing made sense.

"Original copyright, 2073." A hand met his crown, dragging down his face. "Written by Philip Watkins."

Hailed as the most comedic book of the year by a Newberry Award, it mattered not to Brad as he shoved it back into the case.

"Brad!" Jenny called. Thanked God, he did. "I think I found something. Take a look!"

Eventually, he made his way over to the hutch.

"Jenny, I simply hope you're not reading the second volume of the 'Forgotten Legends' series." He said. "You're only wasting time."

"So I figured." She tossed an equally elaborate, leather-bound tome aside like an old magazine. "But after I passed the chapter 'bout the brave warriors who unleashed beams of twisting, shifting light at the happy boy made of marshmallows, a boatload of notes slipped right out. All of them make references and allusions to a specific legend – a _real_ legend, for a change!"

Papers beside her crunched and rustled, a wrinkled, crumpled slip of loose leaf like a delicate petal in those hands of steel. A single, polite cough and was her speaker clear of static.

"Transcending history and the world," she began, "a tale of souls and swords eternally retold…."


	3. Chapter III

III

Before dearest Jenny had departed for the day, the girl had graciously taken the time to print out all the photos she had taken yesterday.

Spread hastily atop the desk, a baker's dozen of strange, fiery eyes gazed back at Nora with a glossy sheen… and nothing more. Scientific methods and hasty schemes all for nothing, the mystery behind those strange fragments had claimed yet another who had dared to challenge it. The thing only the mages of process and reason were certain of was that the very carbon within the shards had to be at least over several millennia old. Even then, blindly trusted Carbon-14 proved doubtful at best.

Maybe it was best another city had burdened itself with the shards; currently the fragments were part of a tour of a plethora of similar obscurity. "Mysteries of the Ancient World", the organizers promptly dubbed it. Outside an imposing ruin in northern Germany, a crew sent on mission of restoration had unscrupulously extracted the fragments. Scientists in Berlin were but the first of many to fall during the shards' strange odyssey west, across the seas and into the New World.

At the sight of the local paper's bold headline, something other than molecules troubled her, currently. Ten helpless bystanders had been killed, unexplainably in yesterday's rampage yet the terrible freak that had become of the Watkins' progeny laid not a mangled finger upon any of them. Either by the initial injury or of a petrified heart, the faceless author dared not to conjecture.

What caused that rapid, uncontrollable mutation at the sound of a simple call? What dreaded secret locked deep within those shards did hide from curious, prying eyes?

She did not know and probably would not ever find out. If she were assigned a second lifetime, perhaps the murky water she toed would clear just a little bit more. Sadly, it was not to be; just another twenty or so years down the road will she move into that everlasting home.

_Oy…!_

A second wind like a fresh breeze, she wheeled her chair over to the oversized console at the wall. Fingers in proper position, they began an erratic, clacking dance on their shifting platform. Twenty years would inevitably come and go; the sheer thought of Dickinson proved rather claustrophobic. How cramped those 108 cubic feet would be if she resigned here and now.

A deep breath swelling in tired lungs, she returned to work. Bust before the board underhand let out another clack, the cross currently entangled within her coat could not help but find itself in her reassuring grip.

---

The sun hovering brightly in the western sky, Jennifer and Bradley had beckoned their farewells to an eased Mrs. Watkins. The front door leaving their backsides unscathed, two thick shadows led their way back to the eastern side of town. Not a moment too soon, she nodded, turning the corner. A portentous sedan of glossy black had just rolled its way past; a couple of dark suits sat strikingly in the front. The rear bumper completing the turn, her boots clanged a little more briskly against the pavement.

Tremorton PD made little difference; they found what the gruesome twosome would have easily dismissed. "Souls and Swords" a bizarre note, definitely, but somehow things were starting to make a little more sense.

"Slow down, Jenny!" Brad called just behind. "Where's the fire?"

"Oh – sorry…!" she eased her pace. "My power regulation's rather charged, at the moment. Through all that junk, I simply can't process that we actually found something worthwhile."

"That's all a matter of the interpretation, Jen." Brad was quick to point out, sadly. "Hasty notes hardly count as a serious clue."

"Says who?" her boots stopped in the midst of a hurried stride. Loose cement pebbles crunched underfoot as she spun around, knuckles _banging_ on her hips. "Considering all the garbage back there, it was sheer luck we found it at all! If it was nothing more than chicken scratch, I'd agree – but the amount of notes more than makes up in relevance."

Relevant indeed, it seemed. Loose leaves of college rule about the size of an average term paper, most lines hurriedly scratched with both graphite and ink, thoughts and ideas portrayed both of a common theme and narrative. The leaves had told a story to her, the tale fantastically vivid in her mind with subtle utilization of her dream chip. The creation of the swords, the nameless king, the tragedy and redemption of the young knight Schtauffen intertwined with the destinies of a cast of countless others. All of it lead up into the mysterious climax.

"Embrace of Souls", it was scribbled simply.

The tale had ended, abruptly. As she stuffed the notes into a compartment in her belly, a simple notepad had made itself known, sitting plainly on the hutch's table, freed from its premature burrial. A curious hand took it up, her eye wandered intently throughout its pages. Sketches rough and messy yet all shared the late Phil Watkins' current obsession.

A couple sketches had caught her eye. Two swords, they were, taking up each a page of its own. Standing over a fiery pit, the left one was a monstrosity of a cleaver. An awkward _bindenhander _was carefuly drawn with a giant, unwieldy blade fused heterogeniously to an oversized, rather _organic_ spine. The focal point sat squarely in the middle, between the blade and spine, the very demon of war and chaos itself peeking at her from the inferno below with a hot, evil eye… literally.

Soul Edge… 

Hovering peaceable over tranquil waters, the sword on the right page was practically the polar opposite. A clean, shimering _Jian_, it was, its blade split cleanly down the the lengh up to the broad, sloping upper guard. The tiny forte an unusable helix, the hilt itself a single ball of incandecent crystal bedecked with two little, rather _cute_ wings on each side. The pommel formless in the rendition, represented by a single ball of "glowing" white.

Soul Calibur… 

"So the guy had an affection for fantasic tales and a weird, freaky-eyeball sword." Brad dismissed with a shrug. "Rather compelling, it's hardly a clue – let alone proof that elements of this so-called legend caused Phil's rampage."

"But it gave us a starting point, nonetheless." She turned back around, her boots taking turns infront of each other regardless. "It's better than letting Tremorton's finest smash their way through. I say we follow it up!"

"And just how're we going to do that, Jen?" Brad asked. "Hold a séance? Do some kind of rain dance? And just where the heck're we going?"

"Back to the scene of the crime, Brad." She blindly waved a hand. "I want to take another look at those fragments."

"Oh, please…!" the rusty boy moaned, yet the sound of his following loafers betrayed him. "Don't tell me you actually think those fragments are pieces of that edgy soul now, do you?"

"Speaking of which," her palm smoothed over her crown, "didn't you say Solomon said something back in the museum?"

"Pick a topic, Jen." Brad replied. "It's hard to scypher through that poetic garbage—"

"No, right at the case just after Phil went berserk." She said quickly. "You said he acted like he knew something."

"Yeah…" her buddy replied in a drawl, "yeah - that's right! It _was_ something 'bout those shards!"

"I processed as much." She nodded firmly. "Come on, Brad."

"To the museum, still?"

"Not quite." She replied simply. "It's time to pay our new friend Solomon a visit…!"

---

Paid him a visit, his newfound friends surely had.

A pair of both loafers and steel boots had graced his modern campsite comfortably, their rumps had sank easily into the chairs. The Wakeman robot and the Carbunkle had struck a friendly conversation, their concern over yesterday a mere pretense for their shared agenda. His previous sililoquies thought aloud, Solomon would have cursed himself, but that would prove utterly pointless, rather… _redundant._

It could have been avoided; the fruits of his ensuing labor could have blosomed quickly without the faintest trace of blight. The gods were simply not content with his simple plan, throwing into the gears of destiny that of an utter novice in matters of the spiritual. Chaos magic, too unpredictable, rather too _new_ for a learned man true in the secret arts such as he. The reputed "gnosis" a false promise, locked passages of the soul's deep recesses suddenly parted wide for _anything_ to slither inside.

The late Philip Watkins found that out the hard way, and it had cost Solomon dearly. The gods knew only what sheer terrors from times long past had since been awakened. He could feel it in his soul, a sharp vibratration resonating violently within his skull. Utter darkness surely turned the grinding wheels of madness once again, for certain.

The Carbunkle lax and bored, the robot's questions had pressed against him firmly. She wanted to know everything concerning forbiden knowledge of the shards, whether or not that they were indeed recovered fragments of the fabled Sword of Heroes. He could not say; he _would not_ say. For man and his creation lived on a placid isle of ignorance in the midst of shifting black seas of infinity, it was meant by the gods that they should not voyage far.

For should they do, the soul would be wracked with paraylizing, quivering fright, longing futily for tranquil waters in midst of the sheer, awesome terrors that await. The knowledge paradox complete.

He could not have that. Perhaps a sudden test could show her but a peek into the utter madness she sought.

Having dismissed her interrogation with a shrug, he simply offered to explain everything back at the nexus of mystery in several hours. Curiously satisfied, Jennifer had taken Bradley by the wrist and unscrupulously _guided_ the boy outside his camp. His promise a stretch yet it should keep the girl occupied long enough.

A faltering friendship, it would have been a tragic if he paid mind to such concepts anymore… like stealth. A sigh of exasperation escaping his thick lips, his soul burned a little more intensely when the patch slipped clean off his head.

Several centuries had come and past, the zenith of man's achievement stretching as far as the moon and even beyond. History would not blink twice if a humble he made yet another apperance, would it?

_Had it even blinked at all…?_

---

Slipping through angled stretches and lenghts of yellow tape, Bradley and she had infiltrated the crime scene expertly, passing the one-man army of a dozing guard with little effort. The drowsy man on the angled chair long behind, her boots would have banged vacantly on the stone if she hadn't switched on her in-line skates. Bradley played it like a gentleman, treading over the rougher cracks as he led her safely around them by the hand. It was not long until they reached ground zero.

In defiance of the utter destruction around, those mysterious shards stood defiantly in place, hoisted up almost pompously by the short pedestals.

"Are you sure this is the place, Jen?" Brad kindly released her to roll to a stop. Quickly, her blades introverted back inside her boots.

"This is where Sol said he'd meet us," she nodded, "where this whole mess began. With that joker in front, he shouldn't have too much trouble slipping inside, don't you think?"

"I don't know 'bout this whole deal, to tell the truth." A hand rubbed the back of his rusty head. "It's just too far out there for my tastes. I'd rather be facing down the the Lonely Hearts than deal with bizarre, spiritual things."

"They won't be there forever, Brad." A sudden _pop_ and her belly pannel flopped open. A hand snaked inside, papers crunching as she clawed them out. "When they eventually pass on, we won't have to worry 'bout The Lonely Hearts Gang anymore. Someday, this robot will meet its purpose and find itself out of a job – I hate to say it. I'm just trying to get ahead of the curve! Besides, I don't believe this ghost of mine was built only for grunt work and cheap shots."

Watkins' evil sketch crumpled in a useless wad yet her digits managed to unfold every crease and crumple without a single rip. It suddenly became juxtaposed with the shards in her digital sight, data points mapping on the two automatically, a compare-and-contrast readout scrolling up the far-right side of her right eye. The central shard had remarkable similarities between it and the rendition, the hot, fiery color almost a perfect match for the blade's focal point. About the size of her fist in a loose clench, the actual sword must have been just as tall as Brad and just as wide!

"If I couldn't process any better, I'd say that this is definitely a fragment from Soul Edge!" she nodded firmly.

"And I say – that one rock next to it looks suspiciously like the same one in my mother's zeroscaping!" At his own joke, Brad could not help but laugh. "Phil's picture is a rendition, for Pete's sake – a simple rendition! You've essentially made a conjecture on a baseless asumption, when – in fact – the _real_ Soul Edge could've easily been a flail! I even talked to Tuck about it! He thinks yesterday was caused by some sort of nano-machine invasion. That's how desperate I am for common sense around here!"

"I know, Brad." She sighed. "I know I can't make you understand, but I can't help but find this stuff fascinating. I'm the epitome of common sense. I was born of it – solid construction, electrical theory, cybernetics, and source codes. Don't you know how often I speculate 'bout things simply beyond the here and now, just like everyone else? Many people must've thought the same, some of the world's greatest religions born from the very wonderment in an attempt to understand. Just because I'm a robot somehow makes it inappropriate?"

"I'm not telling you how to think or what to believe, Jenny." His arms placed up outwards palms. "But since we're stuck in the here and now, and that people have recently died in the here and now, wouldn't it be better to look for a more logical reason?"

"Yeah, you might be right." The sketch crumpled once again, it rang out dryly against her innards as she pushed the compartment door shut. "But let's just keep our minds open, just in case. Phil Watkins certainly did."

"Okay, just for you." The head of rust nodded complacently. "Let's get started, shall we?"

---

The shattered display encircled with wide, yellow ribbons, they were directly in front of it – just as Solomon expected. From the catwalk fastened high above the ruined stone, he could see it all. Skepticism and deep thoughts exchanged, the girl of metal focused much of her intent directly on the trashed display while her friend looked futily at the sharp glints at his feet.

"Absurd…." He frowned. "Do not concern yourself with that sword if you wish to live. I may not, but someone – _something_ down this treacherous path may kill you should you continue."

Alas, his breath was waisted upon ears too far. More than meager warnings was needed should the fate of a chosen few be their own, their curse. Yesterday's trip to this very temple of wisdom had proved most informative. The tour did pass a grand display of osteology on their way for the webworms, an unfortunate couple emaciated long ago propped up by pins and stands for every passerby to gawk.

Surely one of them can provide that child of armor a proper prelude… 

His hands folded and signaled appropriately – a sharp glint piercing his eye, Kafziel at his wrist found purpose once again.

"Secret Art!" he exclaimed quietly. "_Resurrection!_"

---

—Bradley thought he heard something, a hushed shout claiming revivification. Silence… and nothing more, the still, chilly air blowing at his ears. Windows were open by a hair, the front door open wide, it must have been nothing but chatter from the outdoors. Simply, it must have been carried inside by the evening breeze.

But it hurt, hardly to be certain of it.

"Did you hear something, Jen?" he asked.

"No…." a gentle whir and the girl unrolled from her intent hunch. "My tympanums aren't tuned acutely. I'm no better than human, in my present state though I can listen closer, if you'd like."

"Since we're probably not allowed in here, that'd be a good idea." He nodded.

Jenny complied too with a bob of those blocky pigtails.

"Just a second…" she said slowly, "and… there! Just keep in mind to speak a little softer."

"Rodger that." He said. "Find anything interesting yet, Jen?"

"Not at the moment." The glint on her head shifted in the midst of a single shake. "Though the dark grain on this shard seems to shift a little every couple of seconds."

"It's getting dark." He noted. "It's probably a trick of the light."

"No, it can't just be that." Those chunky shoulders gestured a shrug. "I noticed it doing the the same thing yesterday. I even have a MPEG of the same phenomenon stored in my ROM just before Phil freaked out. It's almost like it's alive—"

Clicks – a staccato disjointedly clacked on the floor. A large, glossy eye of black peeked over the boxy shoulder, artificial lid falling halfway intently.

"I heard something…!" she said quietly—

Clicks, more of them from behind! Quickly, he spun on his heel.

"Heard that!" he dropped to a crouch, his eyes wandering around with utmost scrutiny. The broken corridor before greeted him openly, the immense structure devoid of all but his life with hardly a shard or a wreck suddenly out of place. "Where's it coming from? What's making it?"

"Not certain." Grinding marble from behind betrayed her presence. "Judging by the timbre, wavelength, and amplitude, the staccato's characteristic of a sort of claw."

More clicks - a shadow shifted suspiciously near the back of the hall. Something was definitely there!

"Like a dog's?".

"No," she said and he swallowed hard, "something bigger—!"

Jenny gasped. He saw it, as well, stepping beyond the shadows' thick embrace. Five rows of dark switches of varying length, they arced gently for thick mounds of an equal dingy brown. A single point peeked from behind. Soon another set of switches stepped into the dimming view, joining squarely beside, almost the mirror opposite of the first.

"What is it…?" he squinted. "Some kind of stick man?"

"No – not sticks, Brad!" Jennifer said, quickly. "They appear to be… bone…."

His eyes crossed.

"_Bone?_"

A pair of twins let themselves be known as it further stepped out. Seemingly fused just above where the rows of five converged, they each about a foot and a half long, the outside ones were flexed slightly outward. Up and up, his eyes did travel, running over each new piece as it peeked from out the shade. Up the femurs, around the hips… up the vertebrae… running over the sternum until the creature itself gazed at him vacantly, darkly with a perpetually toothy grin.

"The heck IS THAT THING?" he jumped.

"A skeleton…?" Jenny noted, needlessly.

Skeleton indeed, bony feet carrying its structure closer one clattering step at a time - all by itself! No tendons, no muscles, not even a ligament – all organics had dissolved away years ago. The sheer impossibility of it all, nature's infallible laws were turned completely upside-down. Those sets of tarsus took turns in front of each other with little trouble. Within those naked fists rattled the grips of a pair of wicked-looking blades, each about the half the size of a moose's antler.

The rows of grungy enamel chattered, excitedly.

"Jenny…!" his loafers slid him backwards by a couple steps.

"So much for logic!"

A clang - a sudden fiery _POP_ and Jenny already was airborne. A smoky wisp her trail, it was but the size of a penny when she made first contact – a quick fist to the barren crown. The skeleton had barely the time to raise its jagged blades, poised in front as its back met a small pile of rubble with a nasty crack! At her boots, dirty bones clattered in a useless pile. Sharply, the blades rang out when they hit the marble.

"Well, that was easy." Her hands clanged together, dusting them off. "_Ah_ – what a mess…!"

—Something caught his eye, directly in between Jennifer's thick insteps. The few dirty segments there began to move – an actual sudden retreat for the pile before her!

"Uh - Jenny…." he said.

"What in the world is going on here?" her rhetorical question was distant and muted, his ears pressed to catch every syllable. "I'm trying to process the raw data, but there're simply too many unexplained variables! First, an obsessed LARP goes nuts, and now we've got skeletons walking around unassisted…!"

Scattered bone all around began to converge for the dirty pile. Jenny's boot scratched the marble as she simply turned around.

"Jenny…!" he pressed.

"And just where the heck is Solomon?" she exclaimed needlessly. "It's been ten minutes already. We're no closer to an explanation, and he probably forgot about this little appointment of ours! Tell you what, I'm going to give him _more_ than a piece of my mind come tomorrow if he doesn't show up!"

Pieces from all around in one conical pile, immediately did the bones begin to fuse and retake to their proper joints. Cranium, sockets, nasal cavity, and mandible, already it was as high as a dead man's chest could stand.

"Jenny!" he exclaimed.

"What, Brad?" she huffed - the dreaded skull at an even height with her own!

"_Behind_ you…!" he pointed.

Those large, black eyes popped open too late; naked arms upon her round head in a sort of key lock. That grungy maw chattered with excitement, a rough ball forcing her knee to buckle - and Jenny kissed the marble with terrible bang. The skeleton pushed itself astride atop the metal backside. Soon those wicked blades found purpose once more within its rattling grip.

Its filthy maw tapping another staccato, the naked spine arced impossibly backward with those frightening weapons in the lead.

"JENNY!" he screamed, uselessly.

Down those blades came – with a terrible, painful screech. Jenny too let out a horrible cry. Never before did he see that delicate, doll-like face twist so painfully. The horrible golem atop rattled with sheer excitement, the blades shrieking closer to its pelvis while they ripped her asunder.

"AHH!" the girl cried, excruciatingly. "Brad, HELP ME—!"

A panel useless scrap in seconds, bony hands tossed it aside before they dove inside her. Twisting her face, many expressions a rainbow as the skeleton ripped her piece-by-piece, parts strange and bizarre over gears and sprockets. Nothing more than useless scrap, the Jennifer he knew would be lost in seconds.

Swallowing hard and fists clenched, comfortable loafers propelled him forward into a sprint. What he was doing, he did not know for certain but something had to be done – and _fast!_

It took him hardly a second before he was at Jenny's side, knees springing him up with a foot taking the lead. The leg recoiled into his hip irritably, his loafer scuffed when it met that encrusted jawbone. The chopping ceased finally; the mandible snapped raggedly off, a useless fragment lost nearby in the deepening shadows. The terrible blades were stuck in Jennifer's backside still as the skeleton tumbled, crumbled into another pile on the marble.

"Brad…?" Her speaker let out a weary inquest.

"Hold on, Jenny!" his shaky fingers wrapped around the grip, tensely. "I'll have these suckers out in a tic!"

A foot placed carefully on her rump, every bit of strength flushed into his shoulders, into his fingers that struggled to keep their grip. Metal shrieked; the girl below let out a cry as his arms gradually rocked out the blade. Caring not, the weapon was no more than mere scrap, the stone claiming it with a clang before he went to work on the second. Time was against him; a quick peek over the shoulder and the skeleton already stood as high as Tucker. Within his muscle, the memory fresh, the second blade had wormed out just a little easier.

"Thanks…!" cold metal in his hands, the blade forgotten, he helped Jennifer up to her boots. "How's it look?"

"It's going to take more than a couple tack welds." He shook his head. "That's for sure. But we've other problems, at the moment!"

An erratic chopping – his heart jumped within his chest. The skeleton was on its tarsus at a second look, one grimy foot already in front of the other. Malicious purpose found, those wicked blades jumped – actually _jumped_ back into its bony grip.

Heavy steps ringing, Jenny plodded up beside him. Cold sank into his vest when her arm gently negotiated him a step back.

"Okay, no more Ms. Nice Robot!" the crown of metal furrowed. "The kid gloves are coming off! Stay out of the way, Bradley."

A chop of the mandible, the skeleton keenly challenged her. It flashed her its side, dropping to an average horse stance. The bony arms twisted in the midst of their crossing, those two nasty blades arcing out severely.

Jenny rose up a leg strangely, her "calf" a little before the opposite knee, hovering. Unleashing from her elbows several extra limbs, each "hand" grew a formidable machete. She too let her standard pair follow suit with a winding drawl of a whir. A sharp smirk pulled at those thin lips of blue.

"Mr. Brittle-bones is going down…!" _Maa Durga_ exclaimed.

---

Approvingly, Solomon did nod with folded arms.

_Versus Revenant… _his mind whispered, _come, child of armor, show us your power!_

---

With her final punch, the grand hall trembled in the violent wake.

"Now – STAY DOWN!" she shouted though the thick plume of dirt.

"I'd say it's dead, Jenny," the rusty boy rubbed tiredly at his eyes, "but that'd be rather redundant."

An hour had long passed; Jennifer did not stop.

Night upon them long before she recognized the natural light was no more; it did not stop that stubborn mass of walking bone. The mere framework of a person long since departed, it was surprisingly quick… those blades surprisingly sharp. The secondary limbs had been rendered useless; _Maa Durga _had failed! Strange, goose-necked arms flickered violently at the shoulders, littering the dusty stone one after the other.

Quartered, eviscerated almost twice, and even her backside crashing against the mysterious shards, Jennifer could not stop.

Sitting astride the dead man's chest, the tables turning briefly. Satisfied hardly by a dusty explosion, her hailing fists ensured the freak would rattle her way never again. Beneath her falling knuckles, marble grinded and crunched as she smashed that cranium, sockets, and that irritating, chattering mandible into the stone.

Jennifer _would_ not stop!

The dreaded work had passed easier a little once that quivering jaw was powder, her strained arms snapping and crushing those bones like dead twigs. A smile stretched across her face for the first time in ages. Hard pressed to rattle on what was left, it certainly will.

What I wouldn't give for a crematorium right 'bout now… 

A standard arm stretching with a whirring buzz, her crackle-snapping arms were scooped up off the ruined floor.

"Too many variables, mutations and bloodthirsty skeletons running around." she could not help but moan. "Can anyone tell me what's going on around here? And where the heck is Solomon? I want an explanation – NOW—!"

A sudden noise – a slow, gradual staccato from far beside! On the floor once more, her useless limbs out rang, nosily. Marble grinded underfoot, her free hand a buzz with the servos before it shifted into a blaster. The arm's structure strained, its wires frayed, and the joints oozing with glossy black, she stressed to keep the Tesla coil squarely on the source.

"Very good." A deep baritone said simply. "Not bad at all."

From out the deep shade strolled slowly in a pair of sneakers, cuffs of a pair of jeans wrinkled at the ankles. A tank top peeked at her from behind the neatly pressed lapels of that brown blazer. The source's head brown and bald, a black patch pressed firmly against the left eye; the right eye gazed at her rather intensely. The strange toggle at the waving wrist glinted sharply as those palms rhythmically slapped each other.

"Solomon!" Brad exclaimed like a curse. "Where the heck were _you?_"

"Watching." Ceased in the midst of a clap, those hands wiggled their way inside his jeans' pockets. "I have been watching the whole time."

Still, she kept that buzzing coil trained squarely on that blazer.

"_WATCHING?_" Brad seethed quite loudly. "What do you mean 'watching', Sol? We were nearly killed by that thing, and you've the balls to sit and watch? The hell's wrong with you?"

"All these bizarre events, he's probably behind it!" shaky boots shifted her to a firmer stance. "Give me a good reason why I shouldn't grind you into dust like your buddy!"

"The very same buddy behind you?" his good eye kinked.

Her brow furrowed.

"I'm not playing games with you, Sol!" she shouted. "Talk!"

"Nor am I, Ms. Wakeman." He wiggled out a hand, lifting it up as a sort of point—

Wires snapping, metal screeched as something stabbed into her shredded rear panels! Over that splitting screech, her tympanums picked up a deep, rattling chatter.

"Not AGAIN—!"

With dark hands and arms extended, Solomon gestured a rather bizarre sign.

"_MAT!_" he shouted—

—And metal shrieked no more, behind her did the offender clatter to the floor. A quick look behind, her heavy lids parted wide. The skeleton lay upon the cracked marble finally lifeless, bones and fragments whole and complete – despite all her efforts to the contrary, mocking her just like that nasty blade jutting out her backside. Her panel let out a final screech, the blade making a final ring when it warped into a useless angle against the ruined stone.

The grimy jaw chattered never more… finally.

"You DID send that freak after us!" Brad stomped, irately. "WHY? Just who the heck are you?"

"Me?" that single dark eye blinked. "I am but a humble student of the secret arts, long forgotten and the arcane alike. Currently, I am in pursuit of ultimate knowledge."

"You didn't answer his question!" marble cracked underneath her stomp. "Answer us!"

"Indeed." He nodded. "You are quicker than most unfortunates I have come across."

Angrily, her Tesla coil again found its mark.

"Unless you want to look like your freak show, you'd better give us one hell of an answer!"

"Concern yourself with the revenant no longer." Said the enigma. "It will remain here, lifeless, until the staff or the guard outside comes across it. Should you still want your answer, come with me."

The boy raised his hands, peaceably. A kink in her brow firm, she reluctantly let the blaster retreat into her forearm.

"No tricks!" she demanded. "And keep those hands out of your pockets!"

"Certainly." Out and up, those _peaceable_ hands remained. "Follow me."


	4. Chapter IV

IV

The office finely adorned, rich in color and accoutrements – the very manifestation of his mind's eye encroaching upon the leather topped desk of ebony, it was as though the troubled lands beyond those tall, thick panes were oceans away.

Coolly, Schwartz dragged the tiny rim of hot red a bit closer to his face. Inside thin lips and down a singed throat, the Haus Brinkmann could not have been more satisfying. The almighty dollar ever more fallible, the alley of high partitions sinking deeper into shaky ground, the stocks flapped out of the portfolio on their own – another easy million or two netted.

There could not have been a better time to let his head swim; choked in a thick fog, he abandoned most of his senses for the past half-hour. Weary vision cleared slowly, surely, much to his chagrin, his brain surfaced in a needless, quickened ascent. Sober was he with a simple rub of the eye, his cigarette but a filter, dirtied and useless in the rounded tray of glass.

A foul sigh escaping his lips, his eyes returned to the task at hand. All good things had to come to an end, of course, but the queasy gurgling a little behind the belly of his button-down assured him it would not be for long.

Papers, papers everywhere from everywhere, scattered about, littered messily atop his leather-top desk. From the four elusive corners of the globe, headlines black and bold beamed at him in every language, from Düsseldorf's humble _Deutsche_ to even Seoul's convoluted _Hangul_ and off withAmerica's blasé attempt at English rounding it. Typefaces of various size and thickness, strokes brushed and stamped every which way while the theme remained remarkably intact.

Such a shame, truly, that such a wonderfully complex language of romance had to be wasted upon far western hicks, but his eyes could not help but roll for the Old Gray Lady once scrutiny had returned. Headlines thick with boldface, the report on the first page hailed from a city in the Americas' north, from one of the States, if he read it correctly. Some sort of monster had suddenly made an appearance at the city museum, murdering about ten people in a single swipe. More would have fallen if it had not been for Tremorton's walking, talking oddity, born of machines and the goodwill of an old, solitary woman.

Global Response Unit XJ9 was first page news, hardly; the robot had been around only for the past five-or-so years, saving a world that wanted to not be saved. The monster's body, as printed hurriedly on page two, was what had caught him from simply covering it with page three and four. What once was pure and innocent had transformed suddenly into utter monstrosity, so the author implied. Bizarre structures of calcium jutting out every which way, it had taken the coroner a few hours to cut.

Before the final blow's thrust, witnesses who had fled the scene an hour before had mentioned the creature's insatiable demand for souls…!

His mind could not help but wander away from his desk. Within fallen halls of the once grand castle on the Rhine, the crew had stumbled upon mysterious fragments in the midst of digging up the keep. Dappled plentifully in the raw earth, it was a miracle the backhoe had crushed not one of them. Fate had surely nodded; it was as though they were simply waiting to be discovered.

_Strange fragments and soul-eating monsters,_ he thought intently, seriously, _could it truly be…?_

Perhaps or not, mere second-hand accounts could not satisfy him in the least. With the possibility as strong as the sudden queasiness, he had to find out for himself, he must! Quickly, the pack of Haus Brinkmann brand found itself in his tense grip, the single filter in a vice between firm lips. The Zippo could not have been in his palm quickly enough.

"Clara," his voice far ahead of his finger, punching the intercom button just barely, "call my pilots and have the Leer at DUS ready for takeoff. I want to leave for the United States in two hours!"

"Right away, _Herr_ Schwartz."

Through that thin, burning shaft, he took in a fouled breath deeply. Schtauffen's legendary legacy coming to light suddenly, unexpectedly, it could very well be the boost _Schwarzwind_ surely needed… whether they liked it or not!

---

"I have told you twice, already!" The child of armor persistent, Solomon could not help but let his eye roll. "The sword of which you quest requires a will unbreakable, a soul unshakable, and possibly strength beyond even you, Ms. Wakeman. Should you and your friend be so adamant in this obscene pursuit, you had to be tested!"

The robot's thick boots plodded, irritably behind on the path of solid gray. Dear Jennifer had been as such since she and the rust-head departed the Watkins' household fifteen minutes ago. Their explanation pointless, heeded not at all by the mourner in the bright sundress, the duo once again found themselves at square one. A forbidden blade that lusted after the souls of men: he would have believed it not if he had not better known.

"And THAT'S your reason for nearly tearing me to shreds!?" she growled. "I was almost a scrap heap! Not to mention Brad. Mom can repair me easily without second thought. Brad doesn't have that luxury if your little puppet went ape on him!"

"The revenant was a plaything compared to what terror lies down this dark and lonely path, Ms. Wakeman!" he frowned strongly. "Do you honestly believe you can defeat the evil spirit of the sword if you could not defeat a mere puppet should you persist?"

"We have no idea if this sword exists!" Brad exclaimed, uselessly. "Even if it does, where do we find it? And if we find it, what the heck are we going to do with it? Hawk it at the pawn shop for a few extra bucks?"

"What in Marduk's name makes you want to find it?" he let up not his grimace. "The world should be so fortunate the Soul Edge has been sealed within history's endless tomes. The humble blacksmith's work is worth hardly its steep cost. If you happen to be one of the chosen few who stumbles upon the Sword of 'Salvation', you will surely curse your misfortune as countless others had done in the past."

"How do you know so much about the Soul Edge?" Jennifer asked. "And how did you animate that skeleton? Do you have some kind of nano-machine technology up that neatly pressed sleeve?"

"He told us last night." Brad said. "He's into necromancy and all that weird stuff. Tell you what, I thought all that New Age mysticism garbage died a bit after the turn of the millennium."

"Nothing as so profane and trivial as the latest trends." He said. "I am but a humble student of the secret arts, the ancient and arcane. How do I know so much of the Soul Edge, you ask? My family has been studious within folklore and legends for sometime, particularly the tale of Souls and Swords of which you have a hurried notes and sketches."

"Streams of data and a ROM full of fantasy and folklore…." Jenny's boots eased quicker off the hard path as she hustled beside. "It seems almost everyone's heard of this legend except me."

"Hello!" Brad called. "Am I chopped liver? Not like I'm in the loop either!"

"Ignorance is bliss, I would have to say after all my studies." He said. "The more you have come to know, the more you wished you had not."

"What do you mean by that?" she asked.

"You shall figure it out, soon enough." He sighed. "How are those repairs of yours?"

"I'm still functional, thank you very much!" the robot said in a needless huff. "Mom's furious – she doesn't know how long it'll take to refit the arms your proxy dismantled. It took her a few hours to refit or flat out replace all the circuitry and devices it ripped through. And if that wasn't bad enough, all of last night led up to this horrible scaring on my backside – A-K-A, the hack-job of a late-night welder!"

The girl flashed him her backside, his brow kinked gently. Molded on her back panels was erratic spaghetti of gray, lines both thick and thin wormed and arced every which way the revenant's blades had shredded. Gravel crunching under her wide, thick heel; Jennifer glared at him a dagger.

"That reminds me!" a buzz, the robot furrowed her brow. "Mom's sending you a bill! Hope you or your 'rents can pay for a boat load of servos, that's all I'm saying."

"As you wish." He nodded, another sigh. "Is that why you are dragging me along for this little tour?"

"Oh – _ho…_ yes!" Jennifer grinned. "After last night, let's just say you're going to be my _special_ friend till all the damage's been repaid!"

"And where exactly are we going?" Brad asked. "The high school, Mezmer's, or the garage for a last-minute snack…?"

"I say the mall!" she jumped, the path lucky to have not a single crack in her landing. "Hope that pendant 'round your neck's not a ton, Solomon, 'cause you're going to be my little bag boy!"

"Bag… boy…?" he blinked.

"Either that," her fist met the open palm with a _clang_, a wicked smile cutting across that gentle face, "or you get the pleasure of repaying your debt right here, right _now…!_ I may not be able to process these secret arts of yours, but not even a little hand sign can save you from what's left of _Maa Durga_. I think she's itching for a rematch!"

_Not even you are a match for Kafziel, girl of armor…!_

"Very well," he said, resigned, "we will do this your way – for now…!"

"I knew you'd see it my way!" She grinned, giddily. "Just for you, you big-strong man, we'll stop first in the women's department! I think I've found a new spaghetti-strap top that'll look great even on this bulky frame! Then maybe I'll drag you along to the shoe store for some more fun! I saw a great pair of heels I'd like to try—"

"But… you can't even wear heels, Jen." Bradley noted aloud, pointlessly.

"Oh – don't spoil my fun!" she pouted. "Not every day I get a little man servant of my own, you know…!"

Another meaningless day yet it was going to be a little _too_ long; Solomon simply knew it.

---

Past an hour had ticked, pointlessly; Solomon had just about enough.

This so-called "mall" fared no better than a typical brothel. The triteness, the profanity, and the banality of it all were enclosed tightly into a massive temple of utter gluttony. Dashed yet again were the gods' high hopes for creation by the very creation itself. How humanity survived the utter erosion of time was a mystery even an immortal could not begin to fathom.

Bleak, it probably would not if he were to actually "enjoy" this indulgence. Many bags of bright paper yanked firmly at achy shoulders, the robot's futile tenacity a challenge for even the great Marduk.

"Jenny…!" Brad moaned. "How many more laps 'round this place do you _need…?_"

"As many times as it takes!" metal knuckles banged on solid hips. "How else can we break dear Solomon of weird habits?"

"At this insignificant moment in eternity…" he took in a breath, "I would rather confront _Durga_ with no more than a cup! How many tomes of analogous advice must you possess…?"

"Why Solomon," she placed a slick palm to her chest, "fashion advice is something a girl can never have too much of."

"But Jen," Brad shook his head, "you wear the same thing everyday!"

Jennifer's stomp rang loudly through the grand halls, many a passerby bestowing a rather awkward glance. The tile underfoot had not cracked, rather fortunate!

"It's the PRINCIPLE OF THE THING!" she yelled, her accusing finger the exclamation.

"Okay, okay…!" the boy held up his hands peaceably. "No need to freak out!"

"Done are we here…?" Solomon could not help but moan. "This whole exercise is pointless! I know Brad has told you before, but do you honestly expect to squeeze your boots into the shoes you have purchased?"

"Mom needed a new pair of pumps." She huffed. "So sue me! And would you care for some cheese with your whine? It's not even closing time! We still have another seven hours to ensure your little lesson will stick. If it doesn't – oh boy, I've got so many ideas surging around that'll make today look like a cakewalk! Ever cleaned out an oil pan before? It's not fun, I can tell you…!"

A sigh escaped in defeat.

"To where…?"

"That a boy!" she beamed. "Considering I haven't snacked since breakfast, I say we head for the hardware in the department store. I heard they got some fresh grease in stock."

"Oh, joy…!" he let his eye roll.

"Tally HO!"

---

Oil, grease, and lubricant all third rate, everything might as well have been the same to Sheldon. Perhaps the filtered grease in the food court would provide the exact consistency of which he needed. Silver Shell had proven itself finicky since the grand debut, only could the finest consistencies make the plodding behemoth function like the well-oiled machine for which it was destined.

The geniuses on staff, in all wisdom infallible, had thought differently.

"Useless!" he exclaimed to no one. "Might as well break out the old chemistry set at this rate. Then again, what's making me think I'll have better luck with the Bunsen burner than here? _Aw…!_"

The point, what was it again? It stood rather impressively in his mind, at about six feet with a set of pigtails stiffly standing atop the head. The skin pale yet with a healthy, shiny glow accented softy with the color of the sky on a bright summer's day. Such beauty was Pygmalion's craftsmanship in this grand day and age.

Jennifer Wakeman, sweet Galatea—!

He the lowly Polyphemus, he scowled bitterly at the thought. True beauty his only but with a simple glance, a chance not at all for that splendor more to become. Those around closest would have the better luck, especially that Acis with the spiky, rust-colored hair. How much he would love to crush him with a boulder if it meant she were to be his own. Alas, he was a Cyclops only with safety goggles on, his heart not of a mindless brute.

Such was his fate, resigned but to observe and aid the fickle nymph throughout her strange journey in existence—

A moment at hand, the girl of metal his focal point as large, heavy boots carried her for the automotive section with lemmings in tow. Blinking not a second time, she approached the tall shelves of oil bottles, simply.

"Let's see…." A thought escaped those thin lips of blue. "Pennzoil, GTX, and… ah-HA! Quaker State!"

Shapely digits plucked a bottle of liquid gold from amongst the rest, the decision final with the snap of the cap. From base to bottleneck, the product in its entirety had been downed completely against the clerk's far cry!

"I'd better see a receipt on you, robot!" his demand weak.

"Oh – _umm _– sorry!" her belch withheld, thankfully. "Let me get on that – or rather you, Solomon."

Grumbling bitterly, the strange kid with the eye-patch and heavy pendant did as he set down those many bags. Rubber soles squeaked harshly on the tile as he stormed for the desk, the clerk clearly unimpressed.

"_Boos teezi, qahbeh!_" the boy growled, fumbling irritably with his billfold.

"I heard that, _ja-hosh!_" she frowned back. "Don't make me do another run to the women's department!"

"I think he's been emasculated enough, Jenny." Brad sighed, tiredly. "And me, for that matter."

"With a mouth like that, I ought to blast him in the _teez_!" she folded her arms, crossly. "But I process that I have another fun little game for him to play. How 'bout I walk through some grungy oil and have him scrub every drop off my boots with a toothbrush?"

"Sounds kinky…." He thought aloud—

Eyes of brown and black rolled his way sharply, quizzical gazes met his own with a hint of subtle disgust. Hurriedly, his palms pressed harshly against his lips.

"You're one sad, strange little man, Sheldon." Brad shook his head.

"I'll continue processing like I never heard that." Jenny nodded. "Give me a sec while I delete the temporary file. Just one sec… and – done!"

"How good of you to finally notice." He folded his arms, crossly. "Not a hello nor a simple hi, just a disparaging statement."

"I'm sorry, Shell." Jen sighed, softly. Despite the bitterness, his arms softened in their cross. "I didn't see you there, so focused on getting something to drink—"

"That which I am paying for – at the moment!" the strange boy barked.

"Shut it!" Back at him, she frowned.

"Who's that?" he could not help but ask.

"Oh, that's right." Jennifer replied. "You're not in our homeroom. Boy blunder over there's Solomon. He's the new guy in town."

"Is this initiation or something?" his brow furrowed slightly. "Why's he buying your drink?"

"Apparently, Sol doesn't know a good time from a bad time." She sighed. "With this shell of mine, he got a little too carried away with his fun."

Scraping around on a wide heel, she flashed him her backside – he gasped! Wavy, twisting streaks of dull gray worming around the panels; how could anyone touch upon dear Jennifer with such ferocity? Upon the hurried welds, the pad of his finger touched, gently – only to be swatted away by the back of her hand, harshly.

"Look, but don't touch, Shell." Her brow kinked, firmly.

"You don't have many nerves, Jenny." The free hand massaged the other, his brow furrowed, gently.

"Doesn't take them to know what you're thinking." She smirked. "Any excuse, right?"

"Process it yourself!" he folded his arms. "I'm not saying anything."

"Fine with me." Those blocky outcroppings for shoulders shrugged. "But tell you what. Since Mom's a little too busy with her research, how 'bout you sand these welds down? Don't want spaghetti on my back forever, you know?"

Wide, glossy of eyes of black, crown and cheeks cutely pale with a healthy sheen, could anyone possibly reject such a beauty as her? He could have blushed; another rung of the ladder had just fallen below him, though a fire-truck's worth towered over him still. Play it cool, he must lest he fall back a step.

"If you'd like." He dismissed coolly with a shrug. "A belt grinder, some primer, and some touch-up paint should do the trick. Can't promise a miracle, but no one should notice at a passing glance."

"Thank you." That shifting shape of thin blue smiled.

"Do not thank him yet, Jennifer!" That greasy-bald kid stomped his way back from the imposing counter. "In fact, you ought to be thanking me for paying for your beverage!"

"After last night, you should thank me for NOT pounding you into the pavement!" she frowned back. "Your debt's hardly repaid! If the mall isn't your cup of tea, I have plenty of fun, little _games_ I you can try! Clean out my oil pan or scratch out little pebbles from my soles, hmm…? Perhaps the latter, I think. It's been a good long while since I had my feet pampered."

His heart quickened, blood hot as it flowed into his face. Solomon knew not of what he had practically in the palms of those brown hands, the same thing for which Sheldon worked tireless months! The boy was lucky, that was for certain.

Bradley, on the other hand, could not have cared less. Rather, the rusty boy glanced back at him aghast.

"Let's not talk 'bout _hands-on_ stuff around Sheldon, okay?" Brad asked.

"Oh, right…!" Jennifer blinked.

"As I have asked before," the strange kid blew out a breath, irritably, "done are we here…?"

"That attitude sounds like 'midnight-madness sale' to me, Solomon!" thin lips of blue stretched into a sneer. "Just your luck, there happens to be one in the next town over! Do you really want to push it?"

"Actually," a finger rubbed at the slick cranium in thought, "I do!"

Bradley's eyes boggled, incredulously. So strange, so eager was the exclamation that even his started to cross.

"Do you now?" Towards him, she leaned undaunted, strongly with fists in a tight clench. "Better seriously make a second thought, Sol!"

"No need." He shook his head. "I have made up my mind. I will push it!"

Seizing strongly, the strange boy took her right arm the wrist. Glossy eyes open wide; Jennifer was caught off guard as Solomon brought up the shiny limb with his own. Gently, the opposite hand shot for the exposed joint, for that tiny, black speck dotting squarely in the armpit.

"Is that…?" Brad asked a fragment.

The dark finger met the black speck, the winding chime of industrial strength Bradley's answer. In a writhing heap, Jenny collapsed to the floor. Ringing out abruptly, the loud bang was a match barely for continuous giggles, a fit of them laughing out from those thin, blue lips.

"Jenny…?" Awash was Brad's question in the erratic titter.

On the floor, Jennifer was inconsolable.

"I told her I would push it and I did." With certainty, the kid nodded. "I am not certain, but I believe my debt is repaid as of today. Do you agree?"

"You…!" Slowly, Jenny was coming out of it, yet words still struggled through the fit. "Why – you little…!"

Solomon sighed – only to lift up her limb again and press his finger against the dot. Another whine and poor Jennifer was alone once again in hysteria… as was the grunt behind the imposing counter.

"You damn ROBOT!" the clerk hopped, irately. "Where the hell's security at!? I better not see one crack in that tile, or it's YOUR HEAD… or hardware – or SOMETHING!"

Solomon shrugged, simply.

"Well, is it or not?"

"Okay – OKAY!" Her answer a manic-depressive shout. "No more – no more…!"

For the first time, Solomon smiled.

"I knew you would see things clearly." The boy nodded.

"You're lucky, Sol…." Jenny struggled to catch her breath – if that was even possible. "You're lucky I'm a robot of my word, or else you'd be the one lying on the floor! Don't ever pull that on me again!"

"We will see if there is _mettle_ in your words." Rudely, the kid dismissed with a shrug. "Forgive the pun. It could not be helped."

"Neither can a foot to the crotch…!" To her boots, she pushed up with a groan. "But today, I'll let it slide."

"You're the new kid in town!" Brad yelled. "You've only spent less than three days here! How can you possibly know of that nerve ending?"

"You honestly believe I can share the same town with the famous GRUXJ9 without completing a little research?" the boy asked back. "With help from the Internet, information today is all but infinite – never corroding, never decaying, preserved both in all usefulness and triteness. The article entitled 'This Time with Feeling' was but one of many exploits I have read concerning dear Jennifer over the past few days."

"Stupid reporters!" A sharp squeal, Brad's loafer scuffed against the tile.

"Forget about it, Brad." Jenny shook her head, ever so cutely. "Let's just move on."

---

Product snatchers, grumbling kids, and cracks the size of hairs on the pathway, the day could not have been _brighter_ for Charlie. Perhaps the customers would have irked him not if the management had given him those couple extra hours of sleep beforehand – for which he had asked politely several times. Alas, neither the GM nor the countless other shops in the chain could bear to be without a few extra dollars; an act of God that he had not snapped the earsplitting moment when the phone rang off the bedside table.

"Seizing oil, cracking the tile, and disturbing the peace—!" he grumbled, irritably. "Stupid kids! Why can't those _other_ damn teenagers get up at frigging five in the morning!? Can't they be without their stupid cartoons for one frigging morning!? I'd eat this damn vest if I could…!"

He could not; the idea of polyester and cotton did not sit well with his churning gut. Slouched before the ancient IBM, his mother's voice could not be more irritating, could not have been more correct. His days indefinitely wrapped in poly-cotton blend and pinned with a cumbersome sliver of plastic, he should have stayed in school. Started working, did he finally realize how good it was. Free as a bird, studying the daylight away when the professors finally left him to his own devices. Life to its fullest, it was.

The idea too pure to be certain, he paid through the nose for his insecurity, the last ten years at the meager bare minimum more than what he wanted. The school year close to its end for a good ten weeks, community college but a warm, golden glow on the near horizon. The space in his apartment rather naked, a humble sheepskin could make it just a little more cozy….

Provided the _shmuck_ in the cramped office perceived things equally, that is. The humble employees possessing a life beyond the four walls of countless racks and shelves, Heaven forbid it!

Wakeman's tin can of a daughter back on her feet, her little posse could not have made their way towards the wide, gaping portal of an exit soon enough. Peace, subtle quiet through the hushed elevator music, in could sleep's few extra winks squeeze lest the GM request that he lift something heavy—

Heavy, quickened steps fresh in his ears, not yet could sleep happily cart him away. The customer approaching rather brooding and intent, the long trench draping off his shoulders wisped against the walking tin can as the man made his way past. Thick, imposing sleeves ending distinctively at the pockets, the stranger was here hardly for a simple bottle of Pennzoil.

Black biker boots stopping promptly before the counter, he felt his heart twinge as the customer gazed at him with an angry eye.

"May I help you, sir…?" he swallowed.

"Yes." The man smirked, sharply. "I've come to make a withdrawal."

A sigh; pretty, this was not going to be.

"I'm sorry, sir." He shrugged. "This store doesn't have an ATM. Perhaps if you were to check with the mall's customer service desk, I'm sure they can point you in the right direction."

"Perhaps you didn't hear me." The man frowned. "I didn't ask for an ATM, I just want to make a _withdrawal_."

The right sleeve retreating out the pocket, out the fingerless glove came with a simple snub-nose revolver. Not sure was he that even the tin can could pick up the claw hammer's erratic staccato.

"Let's do this clean and clear." The stranger whispered. "Just open the register, fork over the large bills – no lower than tens – and close the drawer. Let me walk away, no alarms, no shouts. No broken bones, no shots, no blood, nothing. Don't comply and even I'm not sure XJ9 can fly faster than a speeding bullet."

Harder, his stomach churned when the muzzle touched his belly.

"Get my drift…?" he pressed, firmly.

"I get it." He nodded. "Okay…."

Pushed around, bullied, and robbed thrice already, only one thing he could do. A deep breath swelling in his lungs, he made his move, a hope silent in his head that little Nora had birthed her daughter with sharp ears…!

---

"YOU GODDAMN TIN CAN!" Jennifer's tympanums picked up, easily. The boys too had little difficulty. "GET BACK HERE—!"

—_BLAM! _—

—Surprised yelps made a whisper of the shot.

"Holy cow!" Sheldon exclaimed. "Was that—?"

She nodded solemnly.

"Sound signature confirms it." She said. "I'll check it out. Just get to an exit!"

"Don't got to tell me twice." In a dash, already was Brad in the lead. "I hate guns!"

"Debt's repaid, Solomon." she nodded. "Leave the stuff. Just get out of here – and take care of Sheldon—"

In place, she rocked abruptly. Arms of maroon swath wrapped around her midsection, at a quick glance.

"You _do_ care…!" mouth of snaggleteeth pulled into an awkward, toothy grin.

"Not _now…!_" a moan, off she yanked the boy, single-handedly. "Sol, make sure he doesn't pull _anything_!"

"As you wish." The bald kid firmly took Sheldon by the arm. "Come, you infatuated fool…!"

"Hey!" Sheldon's stumbling protest fell upon deafened ears. "_Wait a minute…!_"

Servos buzzed quickly in her boots, secure lines of wheels boosting her up by a couple inches. Enough time had been wasted; fresh accoutrements left abandoned in the hot exhaust, rubber burning freshly as the storefront's enormous doorframe whipped overhead. Across the twisting tile, through numerous racks, back to the automotive department, she rolled swiftly.

Skates introverted back into her boots not a moment too soon, the imposing counter less than a yard away. Carefully boots took turns in front of each other, a process of foreboding buzzing in the back of her motherboard. Eyes at a ready forty-five degrees, the floor behind the counter gradually made itself known. The register drawer empty; her fists clenched tightly. Despite the boring, bleached grains, the floor encircled was blushed a deepening pink—

_No…!_

"Charlie", it was emblazoned blue upon the plastic card speckled freshly with red. The grouch behind the counter was laid sprawling on the blushing tile, the vital fluid leaking generously out a single wound that had punctured his chest. His final shout one of demanding anger, his eyes bloodshot, locked indefinitely in an accusing glare.

_Not again—!_

—_Cl-cl-click…!_ —

—A tap, her head tilted forward, gently. Something had touched it from behind.

"Hold it, robot!" a voice of baritone commanded. "Don't move. No sudden moves, no tricks, nothing!"

A staccato of clicks, her database flashed at her every possible weapon that could have produced such a noise. Several types of revolver pistols flickered in her brain at least twice, particularly models from the old Smith-&-Wesson company.

"A handgun?" she complied, mockingly. "You against the world's most advanced piece of complex-neural AI and cybernetics with a simple _handgun?_ You're out of your league – I'll tell you that much!"

"It maybe an old snub-nose .357 magnum," said the murderer, "but I came loaded with steel-core AP rounds! At point-blank range, they'll decommission even you, XJ9. So no funny stuff!"

Steel-core bullets: the bane of her short existence this side of antique Super Soakers. An opportunistic gang member had flashed her his lengthy piece a while back, an old Israeli-made UZI carbine, hardly worth a serious effort. Foolishly, she had let the punk humor her, simply intending the lead and copper bounce off her armor. When only her sharp eyes caught the streaks of smearing, pale green had she realized the mistake.

Slowly, she raised her hands; she was stuck. Time, once again, was against her. It would not be long until the thug grew bored of her. She had to process a course of action – and fast!

The open register, wrecked and emptied… 

"So… how much was your take?" she asked, simply.

"What do you care, robot?" he dismissed. "Not like you've got to put food on the table!"

"Was it worth it?" Tightly, her jaw clenched. "Was it worth wasting a precious round in the clerk? How much did you manage to scurry off with? Come on, tell me…!"

"'Bout a hundred-fifty dollars." The man said like a curse. "It's enough for today and maybe tomorrow, but that's 'bout it."

"A hundred-fifty dollars…?" her brow furrowed, strongly. "A measly hundred-fifty _DOLLARS!?_ You mean to tell me you've risked life, limb, and ruined another man's life over _A HUNDRED-FIFTY MEASLY DOLLARS!?_ What about Charlie!? Did he NOT have to put food on his table, does he not have family of his own to care for!? Was he somehow a lesser man than you!? You must be some kind of Supreme Being, since you just had to put one in his chest!"

Heatedly, the barrel was removed from her head – just as she calculated.

"Hey – I didn't mean to play God—!"

"_NOW!!_"


	5. Chapter V

V

Comfortably on the living room couch, Nora had decided to take a break.

Carbonated syrup imbibed, the taste once fresh but a lingering sour on her lips, a can or two exactly was what she, the good doctor, prescribed. An hour had past ticked, quickly, eyes glazed over halfway from the painfully bright monitors fixed in the lab. Past few days' attempts at possible research ended, abruptly… predictably. Nothing to which the research had arrived; the great Nora Wakeman became an accidental casualty to the great enigma of the shards.

The thing only to which she was certain was the fragments had come of the fabled age of iron – even beyond! To what did they complete was yet another colossal mystery for another, hopefully brighter, day.

_What difference would it make?_

A meteor, castle, or even a sword, time's fickle sense of itself would surely all reveal – long past her final jilt, most likely. Still would her daughter be around, the revelation but an interest fleeting in the current passion's rippling wake. The truth revealed, finally, the learned community would ponder why they bothered even in the first place.

"The strange shards were once of a great phallic symbol…!"

Too bizarre, too true quite possibly to deny, she could not help but laugh.

"The rare architectural wonder!" the call came out in a childish snort. "Behold the eight-foot protrusion as it _pollinates_ on everyone!"

From Germany, the shards had traveled. Lord knew only how freaky the _Deutsche_ could be.

Alone on the couch, snorting at childish whims, Jennifer surely was having more of a day productive… even if it was at Tremorton Mall. What dreaded piece or accessory did her creation process tasteful today? Soon enough, Nora would definitely find out, ensuring the horrid rag or tassel would bask never in the daylight again!

Her achy frame sank comfortably into the cushions, thoughts pure and simple left to their own devices. Thoughts puzzling and complex yet it stopped her hardly from having the entire train derailed. Cabin by cabin, idea by idea, all were gracelessly thrown into a crude, primordial abyss.

The sweltering, bubbling habitat of infantile humor!

Into her cheeks, she forced a pocket of breath, tightly. Trapped between flesh and gums, out she forced it in a rip of wet bubbles. The final pocket popped, she laughed rather… desperately.

"God, I'm old…." She shook her head. "What the heck happened to me? Perhaps I spent a little too much time indoors, this big nose pressed firmly inside a textbook. I shouldn't complain. Those hours at college and graduate school provided more than a typical nine-to-five ever would. A good career, a wonderful house, and a creation I could not be more proud of."

Jennifer, sweet Jennifer, at first was she the mere product of frustration deep against Skyway Patrol. Corruption typical, pride inconsolable, and incompetence downright, a dang robot could have done the job better than the whole cavalcade of klaxons.

The gauntlet had been tossed, a fresh challenge to which she eagerly had jumped… from one to two to three… all the way up to nine. Her heart entirely poured into molds of cast iron, her soul fused into boards of circuitry, not would it be erroneous to believe she had built the GRUXJ9 in her very image, desires, hopes, and dreams; the Nora Wakeman she could have been yet was not.

Barren and a marriage short-lived, she found the little girl she had wanted all along. Step by step, she had been there for little Jennifer, modifying her, improving her, teaching her, helping her, and guiding her. Loved her, she did, and raised her finely, teaching and endowing her so much _more_ than simple techniques and knowledge. The ghost, _Deus Ex Machina_, or even Hephaestus, for it she needed someone to thank, gratefully.

"I really shouldn't complain." She nodded. "I'm old, I know. Tremorton and SP won't have this old hag to kick around much longer, but as long as the world's safe and Jennifer's truly happy, I can say my life wasn't _all _wasted.

"I bet I know how you two felt before you suddenly upped and left." her thick frames arced back, glasses focused intently on the ceiling. "Disappointed, I'm sure that your little Nora couldn't bear and rear you a normal grandchild, probably think it's some sort of abomination, or a sort of perversion at the least."

Up she pushed to her pumps in a defiant huff.

"Well, she's not!" she stomped awkwardly. "She's more than a robot! Jennifer's my daughter, like it or not! When I get up there… or _down_ there – one of the two, you can gripe at me then—!"

_Ding-DONG…!_

"But not now." She took in a cool breath. "I've got company!"

---

"What're you—?" grunted Sheldon. Through the wide-open halls and into the dense stampede, the strange boy with the patch dragged him, roughly. "Let go of me—!"

Several shots – the mall was awash in fresh panic. Wide corridors and spacious atriums all the more so, food fresh and nibbled left to rot, everything had been abandoned, instantly for the great outdoors. Several blasts, patrons once proud had been humbled in a manic-depressive choir, flashing him with many a speeding backside on the way to safety's fleeting embrace.

On abandoned tiles, strange Solomon treaded onward unfazed.

"Didn't you hear me?" he tugged sharply at his sweat jacket. "I said _let go_!"

"You have heard the girl of armor." The boy looked not back. "You are not to interfere!"

"I – don't – CARE!" his protest a shout. "Jenny's in trouble – I can feel it!"

"You feel nothing of the sort." The boy replied, coldly. "Concern is admirable, yes, but it is impossible to _feel_ another's predicament. Dear Jennifer can handle it, I am sure. We are better off outside this abominable structure."

"You don't know Jenny like I do, Sol!" he tugged at his sleeve once more. "You only have your stupid articles and theories to fall back on, not experience!"

"Oh – and I can surmise that you indeed have this 'experience'?" the boy graced him with a black gaze… literally. "Can you stand, proudly against the GRUXJ9 and live to tell all? I think not!"

"You're one to talk!" he spat as though the very words were bitter. "You're the one who nearly scrapped her, so her scars show! What if the patch job doesn't hold up? What if an important part suddenly fails on her? What if she can't defend herself – _huh!?_ WHO'S GOING TO HELP HER, SOL!? TELL ME THAT!"

"You are quite the romantic, I must say." The boy noted. "How interesting a being of flesh can tumble over one of pure fabrication. Have you spoken with a psychologist concerning it?"

"You don't want to listen – FINE!" he shouted. "I'll help her out – you can go to straight to Hell!"

"You have no idea what you—!"

The boy finished not, his sentence left a fragment as he hit the ground in a belly flop. Never before did Sheldon think his pasty knuckles could hold such force, a force that had channeled straight into the back of Solomon's skull. The hindbrain knocked, suddenly, the boy had not a chance. Grasping him by loose folds of denim, Solomon trailed a long, wet kiss down the tile and onto the hard carpet of the nearby cutlery.

Weapons of melee a plenty, Solomon would certainly be safe… which reminded him.

A forgotten alcove in the great temple of commerce, the cutlery of Tremorton's Mall boasted a collection impressive. Hilts precariously atop simple drawer pullers, blades of many a size cleanly gleamed in the track lighting, daggers, rapiers, broadswords, and a few which required two able hands. Display cases shown proudly many knives, a simple folding blade all the way up to full-scale Bowies and several Nepalese skull-crackers.

He bothered to gaze why; he did not know. Never was he a big fan of blades.

A wall case instead had caught his scrupulous eye, particularly the one displayed brightly beside the open register. Bill marks righteously ignored, his hand went straight for the full ring of keys abandoned simply in the drawer's lock. One by one, filed through each he did in the display case's lock until one forced the plug to twist, naturally. Glass scraped dryly as he guided the pane open, fingers eagerly twitching as they went for the prize.

"Fear not, fair maiden!" He called out, romantically. "I'm on my way!"

---

Rounded palms and digits blushing, thickly, Jennifer said nothing.

Before it had started, the fight was long over. The thug off his guard, the muzzle removed, she had immediately jumped upon him. Piercing blue eyes open wide, the utter mistake had been acknowledged, yet it was far too late. Pushing his pistol forward quickly, it had not been quick enough. Simply, she had caught him by the wrist, squeezing it, decisively… firmly… _harshly_! Bullets spiraling safely away from her head, her tympanums caught every split, fracture, and clean break.

Never before had she seen a man's face twist so painfully; it was unexpectedly… pleasant.

Enough of his feeble pain, she had ended it, mercilessly. Her tight fist had hit him and hit him… and hit him! Stop, she wanted to and yet she just could not… she – _would_ not! Every punch, every contusion, every drop of precious crimson, she wanted _more _of it! Torment, anguish, pain, even suffering, all but simple in a crackling snap of newfound processes of which the ghost struggled to make sense.

The struggle had stopped her not; still had she rode him astride and hailed blows upon his crumbling frame. The chest of flesh continued to rise and fall, possibly quite the sight only that kept her from smashing the rest of his skull into the tile.

"Why…?" the offender whispered through a dribbling flow of red. "_Why…?_"

The offender went unanswered.

"_Uh_ – answer me… damn it!" out, he coughed a blushing mist. "Why…? How could you—?"

"Could I what?" at her messy palms, she frowned. "Could I do this to you? My processes are currently inconclusive, at the moment. Quite possibly, it's probably the same thing that caused you to do away with Charlie. You can't fight the killer instinct, I suppose – if it really does exist."

"But… you're a robot!" his current protest weak. "You can't be programmed that way…!"

"Humans aren't supposed to murder each other, yet they do." She said, simply. "Why? Was it because some were raised, horribly, that their mothers' withheld their milk, or does it stem from that selfish to desire to pass on their genes?"

"I don't know…."

"And you honestly think that I'm supposed to know all this crap!?" those hands clenched with a _tang!_ "I'm just a robot, programmed as an extension of my mother's goodwill! Simply, because I'm programmed not to injure or maim doesn't mean I'm not capable? Sometimes, even I'm not sure why I do half the things I do!"

A step, she took forward – something scraped against the tile underfoot. Replacing her boot squarely beside the other, the man's pistol was a sharp contrast against the bland, thin squares. In her thick hand, the grip was discomfited when she scooped it up. The apt database flickering in an eye, her thumb scraped at the cylinder catch. Slugs mooned her from their greased cocoons, five had dimples punched in, crudely.

A process buzzing through her ghost, one of which she was not certain – yet she could not help but reset the cylinder with the untouched cartridge a trigger's pull away.

"Robbery one!" she said. "Charlie was close to over the hill, hardly a threat to a man of your stature. You could have easily shoved him away and scrambled for the open drawer – yet you brought this gun with you still! Charlie was not a threat, even when he called after me and yet you shot him, cold-heartedly! Was he that intimidating, could he overpower you if he called you on your bluff? _Why!? _Do you even know!?"

Piercing blue eyes popped open when she trained the small muzzle squarely on one. Her view flashed hotly, intermittently with a "WARNING!" emblazoned, brightly in yellow yet… still her thick finger took up the trigger slack.

"What's stopping me from putting this last shot in your head?" Kneeling right beside him, the muzzle had little trouble sitting squarely on his bloodied crown. "Is it my programming, the 'three-laws safe', perhaps a fleeting sense of right and wrong? Do I even know!? Tell _me, ja-hosh!_ Tell me why you shot one of these bullets into Charlie! Tell me why this last bullet has your name on it – tell me why I'm going to oblige!"

The throat shifted, gently. Blue eyes glistening, a simple drop trailed wetly down to his ear. Touching, it almost was… if she bothered to care.

"ANSWER ME!!" the hammer thumbed back, he sharply winced at the erratic clicks.

Petrified silence and nothing more, her inquiry not satisfied nor ever will be. Looked forward she did to a suitable answer; a shame it was, truly. Either way, the thug had proven entertainment long enough, reason there was not to keep him alive any longer.

A sigh escaping her speaker, her finger feathered but microcosms of pressure on the trigger.

---

Jennifer trapped in such rage, Sheldon was aghast.

Jenny had taken close beside the bloodied, twitching pulp a knee, the cap acute drenched in that rippling crimson puddle. Inconsolable, intoxicated deeply in a violent tirade, she pressed the thug's own gun against his crown, the thin claw but a hair away from certain discharge. Glossy eyes quivering fiercely, the glare a blacksmith's worth of hot daggers, a sudden jerk of her thick, curling finger would hardly be accidental.

His cutlery store's prize in shaky hands firmed, gears grinding of utter madness had to be jammed!

---

"YOUR _S—!_"

The revolver wrenched from out her grip, the raging processes denied a swift follow through when the pistol skittered far away on the tile. Something had smashed into her wrist – at some do-gooder's whim, it must! Eye catching but a thick smear of black, its master would surely pay dear for his intrusion!

_Drown them!_ A flash sublime, it was in the current process. _DROWN THEM IN THE CRIMSON FOR INTERFERING!!_

"Certainly—!"

Her head quickly snapped to the side – the ceiling tiles quickly whipped down into view just as fast, a dark smear the cause of it all! Her arm extended habitually, servos a burning whirr – yet into her view did many a clothes rack whisk from the right, head ringing out bluntly against the wet tile.

Downed… she had actually been _downed_!

Motors and servos no better than winding noisemakers, her limbs had been rendered useless – her emergency shutdown switch obliquely depressed! The scene at the corners grew dim and faded; blackness encroached upon her vision with sheer bravado. The opponent loomed over her helpless form with incredulous perplexity, dejected seemingly at victory's bittersweet taste. Maroon folds pleated crookedly near the open zipper as his dark _bo _tapped against the floor with disgust unbelieving.

"Jenny…!" tympanums struggling synced with the faded, distant sighs from the snaggleteeth. "How _could_ _you…?_"

Incredulous and ashamed, Sheldon's pregnant fragment struck her rather… hauntingly.

---

"It's been a half-hour since you've arrived on my doorstep," _Fräulein_ Wakeman pressed as politely as could a stodgy, old widower, "and yet you still withhold your reason for visiting. We have made small talk, I had offered you some tea, and we've had a delightful debate on the Holy Roman Empire. Even still, when one enters another's place of residence, shouldn't it be most prudent to state his business, Mister…?"

"Schwartz." He affirmed with equal politeness whilst reaching for the flat square inside his coat. The gurgling just behind his coat and shirt demanded it. "Johan Schwartz of _Schwarzwind_,Incorporated."

"Very well, _Johan_." Her loose brow kinked gently above those cola-bottle frames. "Now, could you be a dear and tell me why exactly you and your – _entourage_ – have been made comfortable at my expense? I'm a very busy woman, you know!"

"Don't mind my 'entourage', _Fräulein_ Wakeman." He gestured for the member closet, sitting rather stiffly on the nearby lounger. "Hired thugs nor assassins, they're company personnel, nothing more. They're here exclusively for my personal safety."

"And what's to stop them from deeming me a threat?" she asked, loose brow still in a firm kink.

"We wouldn't be having this chat now, would we?" rhetorically, he asked. "Don't worry, if we came bearing ill intent, we would have already acted upon it by now."

"And you better hope it doesn't come to that!" warned cutely, she did with a disparaging finger. "This happens to be XJ9's stomping ground, you know!"

"Of course." Fingers complete with the task, he retrieved them out smoothly with the thin case of tin in the loose grip. "I'm hardly that brash – or stupid for that matter."

"Then prove it, Mr. Schwartz!" the woman intently leaned forward in the high-back chair. "Enough pussyfooting around! Tell me what's this about. Just who the heck are you and what do you want?"

"An interesting person you are, _Fräulein_ Wakeman." Opened the case, he did with a thumb, simply. Thin columns of many a Haus Brinkmann suddenly became one short. "But sadly, the _Schwarzwind_ expresses little interest in simply meeting you."

"How _modest…!_" that frown entrenched deeper.

"Rather…" words glanced weakly off the filter – a humble nub of burning light singeing the Brinkmann's tip at his needful whim, "the company expresses much interest in meeting both of you."

"Both of us?" refracted eyelids blinked, incredulously.

"Indeed." His gurgling belly satisfied not with the first drag. "In Düsseldorf, the company had caught wind of the bizarre incident that had happened here a couple days ago. Strangely, the focal point of the incident was not your creation or the poor Watkins boy."

"Then what was it?" she pressed.

"The fragments." He replied, simply.

"The fragments?" she blinked again. "Why would mere shards hold the interest of your company… and just what the heck _is _your company!?"

"That's the end of my teaser." He smirked in the midst of another drag. "I would like to wait for your lovely daughter to return before I divulge anymore. Let's just say that I have for both of you… a 'proposition'—"

The home's main portal banged out loudly behind; politely, he pushed to his loafers while the entourage made the first move. Employees promptly rushed to the door with weapons withdrawn, flanking the noisy door with practiced ease as they, both formerly of GSG9 prestige, had done before plenty of times. Acknowledging each other with a single nod, their barrels gazed coldly at the thick, rattling piece of wood and glass.

A rhythmic, stifled thumping, _Fräulein _Wakeman's raincoat-yellow pump tapped the carpet unimpressed. Both carried the old woman for the front door, simply, hands negotiating the barrels away with each a backhanded swat.

"I'll be damned if my home becomes a shooting gallery!" she frowned, strongly. "Put those dreadful things away!"

"You heard the woman." He agreed with a nod. "Holster the guns or you'll spoil my smoke!"

With a reluctant shrug, the pistols of Heckler-&-Koch fame became hidden with their respective handler's coats. Nora opened the door, playing it as cool as humanly possible—!

Only to yelp at the sight just beyond the thick, imposing door. Atop a thin, clothed shoulder of a boy with rusty hair, the great GRUXJ9 mooned him inadvertently as the kid struggled his way inside.

_Mein Gott…_

The old woman gasped; her brainchild was but a shapely, useless shell on the carpet when the boy set it down with a loud _BANG!_

"Brad!" Nora exclaimed. "What the HECK - HAPPENED!?"

---

Creaked loudly at Bradley's achy whim, Mrs. Wakeman immediately went to work on her daughter. Laid peacefully on her side, a PDA's thin cable plugged directly into the port on the back of Jennifer's head. Nothing more he could do, possibly, he simply stood at an observing angle behind as the good doctor worked her technological magic.

Simply reading an LPD… 

"_Oy gevalt!_" the strange, old woman said. "_Oy gevalt ishmer…!_"

"What?" he asked, intently. "What's wrong? Is Jenny okay?"

"Of course, Bradley." The quaff wild of white bobbed. "I'd be a monkey's aunt if I built XJ9 no better than a jalopy. The hardware itself is fine, pristine condition since her repairs. But the software… oh _boy…!_"

"What about it?" he shrugged. "Is it recoverable or corrupted beyond repair?"

"Recoverable, I'm sure it is." She replied. "But her hard-disks have become saturated with raw data, an overflow of information that her ghost can only hope to compute and allocate even the tiniest byte. It probably explains how Sheldon was able to knock her out so easily. Speaking of which…."

"If you're wondering 'bout Shell, he's having a nice chat with Tremorton's finest over the staff from the knife store." He said. "Keeping Jenny from axing the robber and more free publicity than he knows what to do with, I'm sure he'll drop the charges. Last I heard he's letting Shell keep the staff as gratitude."

"I hardly knew that the Lee boy was proficient in _bojutsu_," shoulders of raincoat yellow shrugged, "but thankfully he is! Who knows what would've happened if he wasn't."

"He would be dead and so would the thug." He sighed with a solemn shake of the head. "I came in a minute after Shell did his thing. Lord, you should have seen the mess. A few more blows and you'd have to carry the thug out a shovel-load at a time! How could Jenny do something so – _so…?_"

"Violent?" Mrs. Wakeman finished. "Brutal? Barbaric? Even I'm not sure, Bradley. I'm not sure anyone in the field or even the planet can explain what happened. Right now, I can only hope for a clue from XJ9's recent log entries."

"And…" intently, he leaned gravity's center to the complementary side, "all I see is a tossed salad full of numbers, letters, and symbols."

"Helps if you're entrenched deep within programming language." She said, simply. "And the language right here is rather… vulgar!"

His brow kinked.

"How so?"

"What you see on the readout is a written representation of XJ9's ghost," she angled for him the PDA, politely, "the programming, protocols, and processes maturing in the wake of incoming information via her 'senses'. Electromagnetic - olfactory spectrometry, and air-molecular vibrations with but a hint of tactile information."

"Okay…" he nodded, politely, "let's pretend I don't know what that means."

"Sight, smell, sound, and a lingering bit of touch." She explained. "These senses interact with basic programming and the complex-neural AI to form a sort of _Deus Ex Machina_ – an artificial attempt at the human soul. Considering I dabble hardly in the supernatural, I simply dubbed it as a 'ghost'."

"Perhaps Sheldon would have better luck with this." He sighed again. "All I want to know is why you'd bother with anything so complicated?"

"Think how dull she'd be if she were no more than a vacuum cleaner." The good doctor rhetorically replied. "Though a vacuum cleaner's probably what Tremorton wants after these past few days. My ambitions were simply too much for common sense, and now society at large is paying for it."

Skipped a beat did his heart.

"What're you saying…?" his lids parted wider.

"These past several years," she sighed, "it was a miracle she lasted this long. Look at the current state of her ghost, particularly her AI at the basic, rudimentary sentient."

"I – _can't –_ read it." He frowned, gently.

"Oh – right!" a free hand tapped against the wild quaff, singly. "Anyway, if you _could_ read the language and see XJ9's long beforehand, you'll notice a sudden shift in the sentry protocols. Originally, I had written them with the intent of keeping the peace and preserving life – a sort of modified 'three-laws safe'. But now those very same protocols are shifting from the Asimov paradigm, inexplicably. Instead, the protocols instruct – no - _demand_ only complete and utter destruction – sheer contradiction to everything I had written!"

"Does that mean she's…?"

"No," she shook her head, "not yet, anyway. She's still the same, spunky Jennifer we've come to know and even love. Yet due to these baffling changes in her programming, she'll cease to exist, eventually – devolving into no more than a miniature Armagedroid—"

"No…" he shook his head, fiercely, "that can't be!"

"Bradley, my boy," the old woman turned around on her chunky heels, the melancholy pregnant in those beady, glistening eyes, "XJ9's a computer at the end of the day – as much as I want to believe otherwise. Chained immutably to fate, she is, carrying out her tasks without question or a true sense of conscious. She will do whatever her ghost suggests best, and there's not a thing we can do about it—"

"BS!" violently, the floorboards banged under his loafer's irate stomp. "There has to be something!"

"I'm afraid not." She shook her head. "Not at this point in time, I'm afraid – unless we can figure out what exactly is causing the shift in programming and nip it in the bud, swiftly. We can hope only to slow the rate of progression, but that's just a band-aid on a mortal wound."

"It's a start, definitely…." He took in a hasty breath. "So how do we do it?"

She put a stubby finger to her chin, thoughtfully.

"Hmm…" she hummed, "she was functioning properly this morning when you went for the Watkins' house, correct?"

"Yeah…." Apprehensively, he nodded.

"And she continued to function as usual _before_ she picked up the gunshots?"

"No," she shook his head, singly, "she was just as functional after. The time after the shots and before Shell's gruesome discovery's the big question mark. Just what're you getting at, Mrs. Wakeman?"

"The most we know is she went overboard during the scuffle." The learned woman gazed intently at the PDA in hand. "And during that time is when the shift became the most apparent. I hypothesize that there's a direct correlation between XJ9's first contact and the shift's sudden acceleration."

"Meaning…?" he pressed.

Thick with disgust, a sigh escaped the woman.

"Her sudden aggression gets real nasty in combat, Brad." She groaned. "Lord, do I have to spell out everything for you?"

He frowned.

"Of course, I do." She affirmed with a nod. "How unfortunate you had to be educated by the public school system, Bradley. Perhaps that caused this bizarre shift, her AI burdened so with such remedial, useless information! I knew I should've kept home-schooling her, plugging her brain, literally with rich data, but Hell hath no fury like a scorn daughter…!"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." He huffed. "But seriously, how much time do we have?"

"Purely subjective." She said. "An hour, day, week, month, even a year or two – even I don't know. It seems that the progression is as weak as her sentient being is strong and vise-versa, linked directly with the many impulsive fluctuations of her ghost – her 'free-will', if you will.

"Should she ever lose focus," her aching heart made clear in her painful wince, "should she ever begin to doubt herself, the progression would consume her in its unbridled fury."

"So… what do we do?" he asked. "What can I do to help, at least?"

"Wait and see, my boy." She sighed. "That's all we can do, for now…."

Beside her handiwork, the old woman took a sit, bed making clear its heavy burden with an irritating creak. A lovely caress, a thick palm rubbed along the length of her creation, pricked at the hairs' sharp points, jumping off the abrupt hems of both the top and skirt, and gliding down the gentle slopes of the thick insteps.

"XJ9…." She sniffed.

It was but a sigh, sheer melancholy so thick even his lungs pumped erratically shallow.

"Mommy's sweet, little girl…!"

Knock – knock… 

"_Piffle!_" the good doctor… cursed, so he thought. "Leave my house at once, Mr. Schwartz!"

Opened, the door did rebelliously with a squeal. Casually inside a suit of business walked, capped with a bald, Caucasian head bedecked with a salt-and-pepper beard. Pinched in the web between the right's middle and index fingers was a smoldering stub of paper, erratic wisps of gray steaming high into oblivion.

"I'm sorry, _Fraülein_ Wakeman." The suit said, coolly, accent thick with German or possibly Austrian. Simply, he took in a breath through the cigarette. "I'm afraid I cannot do that just yet."

"You can – and you _WILL!_" indignantly, the woman leapt to her pumps. "This is hardly the time for such shenanigans!"

"Dr. Wakeman, who's this clown?" he let his torso curl into an aggressive hunch. "Want me play bouncer or what?"

"Johan Schwartz of _Schwarzwind_, Incorporated." The suit's tasseled loafers stood, indifferently. "Merely a humble private security firm headquartered in Düsseldorf, we're looking to be one firm of the prestigious Fortune 500 – a true pride worthy of the great fatherland—"

"Shenanigans!" the woman shouted, hoarsely. "She-_Nan_-_Ni_-GANS!! Unless those eyes of yours are blind, I just want to be alone with my daughter! We'll continue this so-called _business _of yours when appropriate!"

"I see…." He took in a drag, thoughtfully.

"And put out that cigarette!" she demanded. "Bad enough I let you light-up in the first place!"

"In Tremorton, big tobacco is _wacko!_" he mused.

"You're lucky I was about finished." Tasseled loafers carried the man for the looming window. Brad's common entryway eased open, the smoky nub was but a shrinking speck in the wild blue at the suit's goaded whim. "I hardly put out my smoke for anyone. Only for you would I deny myself the bitter, final drag."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Johan." That loose brow furrowed strongly. "What on Earth do you want?"

The pompous German smirked, sharply.

"I see the legacy of dear Siegfried Schtauffen's giving your daughter some trouble, _Fraülein_ Wakeman." The geezer noted, cryptically. "Laid helpless in a broken heap, the legacy eating away at her body and ghost till she's no more than a mindless killing machine. Am I… correct so far?"

"What did you say!?" stubby fingers of flesh clenched tightly as did his own. "You know what's happening to XJ9!?"

"Unless one was deaf, I could hear your little conversation easily though these crawlspaces you call ventilation." The suit replied. "Considering the nature of this girl's sudden shift in personality, combined with the bizarre events of the past few days, a well-learned man could conjecture that this was the handiwork of none other than Schtauffen's Legacy."

The 'offender' made known, Bradley's eyes could not help but cross, quizzically.

"The who's-what?" he asked.

"The end of my teaser, young man." The baldy said, abruptly. "I believe we've made our welcome bittersweet. Knowing you wish for some time alone with your friend, we shall continue this chat tomorrow."

"Oh – no, you _don't!_" Mrs. Wakeman stomped. "Enough games! I want to know what's wrong with XJ9 – and I want to know _now…!_"

"I'm sorry, _fraülein._" The geezer yawned at the sight of the band on his wrist. "It's time for my afternoon drink. I'm sure the hotel's bar will surely have some Beck's on hand—"

"You mean what's in the Days Inn's mini-fridge?" bellowed a voice from beyond the squealing door.

"_Ugh…!_" a bitter sigh. "Yes – _Hans_, I mean what's in the mini-fridge."

"Okay!" the voice called. "Just checking…!"

The thick graveness permeating despite, he simply had to snigger… to feel only the good doctor's palm grace the back of his skull, sharply.

"Bradley _Carbuncle…!_" the woman growled.

"What??" his blink perplexed. "What'd I say…?"


	6. Chapter VI

VI

Eight hours of uneventful sleep complete, Jennifer's weighty lids whirred open to the sight of a rich, warm red sky beyond the imposingly jagged window frame. Strange quite for one of the last school days of the warm season, yet her internal clock read only but a quarter to six in a blocky, bright green.

_Early to bed, early to wake makes a girl smart, pretty, and great…_

She affirmed with a sheepish nod.

"I wonder how I did on that field trip assignment." With a pull clean, the covers lifted off her form with little effort. Gingerly, a boot carefully scooted her token pair of bunny slippers safely away. "I'm sure I passed at least with a B, or maybe even an A. That would surely make Mom's day if she's not beating herself senseless over the armor research and the fragments."

Out her door and down the stairs, her boots hustled her down the narrow well of steps and around the banister. Utter silence… and nothing more, her heavy, plodding steps overt, a strange calm had made itself at home overnight. A rough sole scraping onto the kitchen tile peculiarly unchallenged, the morning typical at the Wakeman house it was not, a certain sense of foreboding hot as the blushed sky beyond the shutters.

"Mom…?" she blinked. "Mom? Hello…! Is anyone here?"

Fat, glass pitcher steaming below the brim fresh with Mom's favorite black concoction and dishes of soiled porcelain submerged in the foamy basin, perhaps sleep overcame her old woman once more. Uncertain processes were a twitter in her ghost; her morning shot of lubricant would have to wait.

"Mom…!" she called again. "Hello… Mom! Anyone home?"

The ascent on narrow stairwell, her boots could not help but up the pace just a little. Something strange was afoot somewhere within the dark, vacant structure. Liked not did she how everything was going; the dubious position of center stage, chance had randomly burdened her within its slice of dramaturgy.

"Mom!" she said, firmly. "Come on – answer me."

The door imposing of her mother's sanctuary could not be in front of her quickly enough. Motors whirring, her digits curled into a gentle fist. The hollow piece of wood rattled within the frame, the wake of her knuckles tapping, intermittently.

"Are you in there, Mom?" she asked. "Mom…? Mom!"

Tympanums recognized the silence, merely… and nothing more; they focused more acutely. No groans, no murmurs, no breathing… not even a simple beat from the old woman's heart! Violently, the knob rattled within the door, her shoulder forced the very door away from the frame—

"_Mom—!?_"

The bed sized for a queen a complete wreck – she gasped! Neither of haste nor utter weary, the bedspread yet was a piled mess on the carpet. Pillows flattened and few ripped, quilt ripped asunder, and the mattress itself had been impaled at the sight of that huge, twisted gash of metal slivers and frizzy… _blushing_ puffs!

_No…!_

Proteins and hemoglobin confirmed in her sight acute, servos were burning whirrs as her arm morphed, appropriately.

_NO!_

Someone had gone after her mother in her sleep, someone who possessed an iron gut and a wish for a painfuldemise!

Maroon became a guide saturnine, starting her journey tense from the blushing puffs down a thick smear on the bed's side and onto the carpet. Maroon somehow made its way from the generous stain on the floor to under the bathroom door in a line of erratic blotches. With a solid kick, splinters blew against her furrowed brow while the rest of the useless plank flopped on the travertine with a rattling _BANG—!_

Within the luxury tub, someone drew a bath of shifting, watery pink – her eyes batted in sheer bewilderment. Vision of many an analysis and pointers wild, CPUs hot in the back of her head, yet boots cautiously took turns in front of each other. A wild quaff of white peeking from behind the vanity's blocky side, her Tesla coil kept steady, just barely.

"Mother…?" her speaker shaky. "Is that—?"

Her mother, it was indeed, wading limply in the bath of deepening pink. The soaps and conditioners useless at her sides, the old woman bathed submissively with in her own flowing life – the kitchen bread knife ensuring her generosity.

"MOM!" she screamed, the Tesla coil forgotten back into the recesses of her arm. "_MOM!!_"

A crimson trickle from loose, thin lips her answer.

"No…." travertine cracked under her hammering fist. "_NO!!_"

Soles of her boots white hot, the travertine would certainly be ruined if the whole roof did not collapse as she smashed through. Dr. Nora Wakeman was dead; her mother was forever lost. Scientist, mentor, friend, and mother, the old woman had deserved more than man's vulgarity in the chest. Something had to be done, immediately—!

"_—?_"

Suburbs to the towering citadel of modern ingenuity, Tremorton had crumbled into rolling hills of ruins, heaping and smoldering. Seemingly overnight, Hell itself had broken free of its thick chains, unleashing dark fury upon the helpless city with a broad sweep of the grim reaper's scythe. The morning sky not of sunrise, it glared down hotly at her behind thick, choking plumes of ash as saucer-wide eyes surveyed upon the steaming, desolate expanse.

_Vexus…?_

Former Cluster Prime notwithstanding, yet it certainly could not have been of Vexus. Malicious and controlling ringing true, but the sheer tenacity, the wonton destruction and utter death struck her hardly of the queen bee's handiwork. This was something else, something more… evil.

_What…?_ The process was but a whisper in a torrent of others. _What could've done this…?_

Boots eased the thrust with a single process, the perpetrator a task for latter as she touched down in the Carbuncle's yard. To her, Schlage could hold not up a candle, as her sole floored the front door, effortlessly. Bradley, Tucker, or even Sheldon, there had to be at least a few people around. Stairs rolled underfoot as she topped the stairwell, Bradley's door against the carpet as inside she smashed—

"Tucker!" digits pressed against her lips. "Oh no…!"

The single bedroom an nasty abattoir; little Tucker Carbuncle curled in a gentle ball, laid helpless, lifeless on the wet, sticky mess blossoming underneath. At the boy's back, she took quickly to a knee, carefully negotiating his little frame supine with an uneasy palm—

— _Holy—! —_

—Trembling sickly at the sight of thick, lengthy worms gnawing at his drenched shirt. Hastily, tried she attempted to shoo them away with a vicious backhand; greedy, bloodied mouths clamped tautly on their meal. A piece of shredded cloth angled up in the midst of a swat; at a scrupulous glance, the grubs had chewed not their way inside, but rather their way _out!_

The oil meal from last evening found itself crawling up her intake.

"These aren't worms at all…!" she gagged.

Cruelly had the little boy been savagely eviscerated, glistening dark eyes locked wide open in a gaze reproachful. Lengths of his innards had been spilled onto the carpet, recently. The mortal wound single from a bladed weapon too large to have been found in the kitchen's cutting block, loved the fiend to slice with a weapon of his choice.

"Don't worry, Tuck…." She forced back the meal with a swallow hard. "I'll find the freak who did this…!"

Up she pushed to shaky boots; eyes rolling properly back, neutrally – to wish only they had not at the repulsive mess fouling the back wall. At the bloodied foot, a darkened shade remotely resembling a man laid petrified. The ragged cap of rust now a plastered mess; those large, dark eyes were frozen indefinitely in a state of reprehension orgasmic.

"Brad!" the little boy an easy hurdle, she jumped for the nastiness without a second thought. "BRAD!!"

The vest ripped wide open, his unimpressive chest was dappled with strange wounds, lopsided circles of oozing red an irregular pattern around bits of flesh untouched. The soft belly the worst wound of all, Tucker's equal in utter grotesquery. Slacks of khaki reddened in a small pile close-by, eyes found not a shred of any sort of undergarment.

A solemn nod, the scene made relatively clear as a hand closed those vacant eyes. The attacker not content with an easy kill, he decided simply to make Bradley suffer, insurmountably. The pants ripped off, the fiend readied to seal Brad's humiliating fate when inside must had Tucker walked. Minutia foggy and irrelevant, everything had led to gruesome tragedy undeniable.

"Goes for you too, Brad." An arm snaked with a grinding whine as she went for his slacks. Politely, draped them she did over the profane exposure. "I'll find the freak who did this! He'll wish he never heard about any of us when I'm done – I _SWEAR_!"

A whim of a process, against his did her lips press deeply.

"I'll remember you always…." she sniffed. "Goodbye…!"

His resting place lost within the crackling framework, she smashed her way outside, the jets' hoarse whisper but an echo of fury burning in her ghost. Lost were Tremorton, her home, and her life, everything but insignificant specs within the endless void of the cosmos at the simple whim of an evil man. Out there, he hid cowardly; could she find him and punish him, only then can find her ghost a piece of respite—

Screams - many of them, a disjointed, bi-polar polyphony that hit her tympanums, unexpectedly! From somewhere within downtown's towering ruins, it inelegantly sang before an insane, hearty laugh – a howl so drunk with such lunatic frenzy it threw the uneasy carolers into a panic!

"The _fiend!_" she seethed.

Her jets' blast a swift farewell, it took not a minute before charred towers of the once proud downtown loomed overhead, precariously. Blackened fog plumed from out the tops like smokestacks, churned out by the grinding, meshing cogs of fiendish insanity; thickly, liberally, it choked the tainted sky. Difference little had it made, it was but an encroaching gorge of black as on kicked the afterburners.

_They're getting louder…! _

The imposing gorge's exit abrupt, the town center was encircled in a wave of chaos. People were black ants in the view bird's eye, every which way a few scattered proved useless as a figure ghastly cackled after them. But a sliver of dirty cyan, yet it leapt astride upon an unfortunate, eagerly, the oversized weapon in hand dangling a plum line strong.

"NO!" she shrieked.

Too late: down the weapon had punched, coldly. Stiffly, the victim rolled out of its hunch, a cringe painful when the blued terror twisted sharply its weapon. The victim was but a doll as the terror incredibly flung it off its monstrous tool, flailing aimlessly in the hot breeze before the upturned asphalt claimed it with a crunch sickening.

Oddly even more, enshrouded suddenly the pitiful was in a vapor of twinkling blue, fleeting as quickly as it came….

_Just like with Phil…!_ The process was but small in fury of others. _Like Phil with the fragments…!_

"Which means…!"

Time for ponderings simple long since past, her soles had touched upon the wrecked street within a blink of her eye. The victim a yard away, a teenager – but a child cruelly stripped of her life in a horrible instant, an eye of green petrified in utter horror, insurmountable. The wound drenching the cotton blouse Tucker's equal no less from a single thrust!

Servos buzzed gently as digits went for those lids, not could she look at them anymore.

"Why…?" her head shook. "The hell is it for…?"

"SOULS!" the terror behind exclaimed with manic glee, a voice familiar yet tinged with a beastly character. "I need MORE SOULS!!"

A sharp, banging TING - asphalt quaked yet footing kept true as she spun around. Impressively, the terror cyan before her stood as tall as Jenny and about as wide. Their tastes similar, a girl's body of peaked flesh wrapped simply with a halter-top and simple skirt. Imposing boots of armor protected her legs only as high as her knees, holding not a flickering candle to that bizarre, demonic talon for a right arm; her shoulder gnawed – actually _gnawing_ on its nasty cud behind rows of jagged incisors. A pair of narrowed, cloudy eyes lusted after her with impunity through a burdensome helm.

Within the grip of stubby fingers helved, simply a giant monstrosity, impaling it was a lengthy, spiraling handgrip. An oversized cleaver bizarre, awkward and clumsy, its lengthy, wide belly was of quarter of the monster's width. The spine equally immense, it was rather organic, pulsing subtly as the beating of a heart. Hotly, it gazed at her with a wide, evil eye yellow and bloodshot… _truly_.

"You did THIS!" the monstrosity mattered not at all in her bitter seethe. "_ALL OF THIS!!_"

"Souls…." It growled back. "Men, women, children – need more souls…! I must FEED!"

"You killed my friends…." Her intake tightened. "You killed my mother…! _WHY!?_"

Laughed heartily, the terror of dirty cyan.

"That's it." those foggy eyes narrowed. "I want to see it – I want to see your MADNESS!! You shall feed me, girl of armor!"

Servos in her knuckles popped, irately. Quickly, she dropped into a tactical crunch!

"Suck on this, YOU BITCH!!"

She let out a shout. Before the peaked monster withdrew the massive tool, her knuckles rang bluntly against the squealing joint of the helm's visor. The monster caught its body whole by a single, wide step away, its dumb helmet forgotten to the asphalt, clunking dryly as it bounced out of reach. Gradually, the cyan terror eased her to a gaze wicked of sheer…

…_That hair, those eyes, those thin lips of blue… _

…Irony.

"No…!" her knee joints almost failed. "No – it can't… be! It JUST CAN'T BE!"

"Yes, child of armor!" the wicked doppelganger hissed. "Look past the fluctuations of your ghost, past the calculations many, past this arm, and see your destiny…!"

"No…!" did her knee joints fail, banging against the street.

"This is our future, dearest Jennifer." Sharply, it grinned. "The future we are destined to create, right here around us! Isn't it beautiful—?"

"Why do you look like me!?" her demand weak. "WHO THE HELL _ARE YOU!?_"

"I'm YOU!!" it glared back, hotly. Around the spiraling handgrip, the three-pronged talon awkwardly gripped. "I'm your deepest, darkest shadow! Is this sight not justifiable?"

"H-How can it be…?" staring at the ground, her eyes unfocused. "This…. This isn't—"

"'Possible', you're thinking." The doppelganger finished. "Oh, it certainly is – but the natural extreme of our sentient programming. Inevitable, it truly is once the time ripens. Soon, there will be nothing to stand in the way."

"The way of what…?"

"Darkness, dear child of armor!" it hissed, eagerly. "Darkness is coming, an age inexorable of murder and storm – pitiful humanity lost! Then will I reap such bountiful harvest! For if I don't, others will, surely. Already, I believe some have awakened from such long slumber, a shame they can't thank that poor little fan-boy."

"What does it matter anymore…?" she sniffed.

"Indeed." The terror uplifted its mammoth sword. "Yes, the time for talk is over – now, you shall become a proper part of me! Rejoice, child of armor, that you're the last sacrifice for the day – a proper feast yet!"

Hope lost eternally, a struggle last minute proved utterly meaningless. With a sniff, she simply resigned beneath that monstrous, sharp belly. The uplift of her head final, cloudy eyes of the doppelganger had narrowed, fervently, stubby hand and mutant claw hoisting the heavy point just above her crown.

"Offer… your _ghost_, child of armor!" it demanded.

"XJ9…" her speaker close to static, "Jennifer Hemera Wakeman…! What happened to you…?"

The fiend frowned, bitterly.

"That name holds no significance, whatsoever!" it barked. "Jennifer died the weak, pathetic child the world shunned long ago. There's nothing left! It's just little old me…!"

Arms both strange and normal arced back with a final jerk; her eyes could not help but clamp shut.

"_NIGHTMARE—!!_"

—_SCHL-LINK…!_

---

A shriek sharp – a final gasp, a warm glow coaxed open Jennifer's clamped lids. Abdominal actuators yanked her upright, her angled rump forced deeper into the strained mattress. Her bedspread a mess, a greasy, wrinkled pile at her shins, yet everything sat in its proper place as she had left it the night before.

A weary, careful eye wandered through the room, thoroughly. Stains of maroon nowhere to be found, air quality fresh and clean from the open window, and the wide pane beaming a tranquil blue, it was as though the madness had never taken place.

"Had it…?" she took in a useless breath.

Shaky digits rubbed at her lids, springs underneath creaked back up against their many peers as she stumbled to her feet. Over her, the pane of spacious blue loomed typically as her palms rubbed against the glass with a drawl of squelch. Gentle, rolling hills of healthy green, a moat vast of hard-angled, shingled waves, the citadel proud dominated the horizon as it had done for days and nights countless.

Modern beasts-of-burden rolling firmly on sets of four rubber feet, travelers pacing themselves on foot to their destinies daily, evil no more than a crook opportunistic had taken place during the twilight hours.

It was a nightmare, nothing more; a sigh of relief escaped her speaker, gladly.

"A nightmare…." She breathed, needlessly. "Just a nightmare, thank goodness."

Her arm jerked with a sudden twitch as did the rest of her being. The horrid days recent and long past bubbling, churning inside, merely it was a matter of time before a senseless, inexorable flare. Amazing, it was that it took the ghost this long before a sudden outburst. No one was hurt, thankfully; one day, she would have to thank her mother for uploading the sleep paralysis executable.

Again, her arm twitched; the night's scenario horrid must have stressed, needlessly the circuitry. Sort out by twilight, it probably would. Internal nano-machines already were running diagnostics even as her gaze wandered over the horizon.

Her digital readout beaming a quarter past seven in blocky green, the slave drivers would force their helpless captives to remedial work at the city's favorite institution. Her boots found purpose as they carried her for the bedroom door, right hand scooping the satchel firmly with an arcing sweep—

Only to suddenly drop it, weighty books of text sliding out atop the carpet as her arm fiercely trembled.

"What _the—!?_" the trembling erratic, her hand free clamped down upon the forearm.

Bending sharply at the crook, shaky digits would have stabbed for her face if it were not for her clamp! Panels rattling, twitching digits erratic, and whirr of servos a buzz irate, it took her whole strength to keep it at bay.

"_What's…?_" she grunted. "What's – happening _to me…!?_"

---

"Soul Edge, _Fraülein _Wakeman." He simply said, the snuffing of his cigarette the accentuation if the flickering lights were not. "_Herr_ Schtauffen's Legacy, which _Schwarzwind_, Incorporated has simply coined it. The Sword of Heroes, the Sword of Salvation – call it what you will, but I believe the fragments which you're researching are the very fragments of the ultimate sword."

"You expect me—" the funny, old woman replied with yet another firm kink of her loose brow, "—a world-renowned scientist and authority of cybernetics, robotics, and artificial intelligence – to believe that the fragments displayed at the Tremorton Museum of Natural History are pieces of a soul-sucking sword dubiously named 'Soul Edge'? What do you take me for – _senile!?_ I'm insulted!"

"If that truly was the case, I wouldn't have wasted our time, my cigarettes, or my _money_…!" he frowned, sternly. "Do you have any idea how much jet fuel costs nowadays? The board of directors nearly pitched a fit when I told them about this little trip of mine."

"Don't talk to me with that tone of voice!" the _fraülein_ snapped, cutely. "I know exactly the cost of oil! How else would XJ9 gallivant across the globe?"

"Fair enough." Outward, he held up his hands.

"And why is a prestigious, private security firm like yours interested in such legend, Mr. Schwartz?" she pressed. "Looking to become a part of the Fortune 500, state-of-the-art technology, and equipment rivaling the United States' government, why risk the _Schwarzwind's _laurels and reputation over mere here-say?"

"Didn't you know, dear Wakeman?" simply, he batted it back. "The history of the _Schwarzwind _and the knight, Siegfried Schtauffen, are intertwined, finely! The history of _Schwarzwind_, Incorporated doesn't date back to merely 2008 – oh no! In fact, if one were involved deep into the history of The Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation – particularly within the imperial circle of Lower Rhenish-Westphalian – he could discover that the _Schwarzwind _was founded in the early 1580's. Want to take a wild guess who became their leader?"

"Your little knight, Schtauffen?" she asked, unimpressively.

"Indeed." He nodded.

"What does your little knight in shining armor have to do with this little sword of yours, Mr. Schwartz?" she pressed.

"This little sword of mine had become Schtauffen's weapon of choice after he discovered it on the dead body of a pirate." He replied. "Since then, the history of _Schwarzwind_ and the Soul Edge are inseparable. If there's a chance that Schtauffen's Legacy still exists in this world – that it's somehow recoverable – it could very well be the break the company needs, at the moment!"

"What on Earth does a soul-sucking sword have to do with your profit margins?" she blinked, incredulously. "Do you feel you have to really _stick it_ to the competition?"

She laughed; he would have as well, if it were not a matter serious.

"It seems R&D has hit a slump recently with research." Stomach churning, his belly hungered after another piece from the flat, tin case within his jacket. "Like you, we're currently in the process of developing new alloys for armor; vests, vehicles, tanks – you name it. But it seems our competitor has taken the lead, currently developing one that can resist even the pressures of a thermobaric blast! If the company cannot produce a better, economical alternative, we'll lose our bid to produce the next-generation line of alloys for the _Bundeswehr!_ The Soul Edge practically is our last ace-in-the-hole."

"I fail to see the connection, Mr. Schwartz." The funny, old woman crossed her arms. "Even if you do find it, what're you planning – produce it in mass?"

"Throughout history and the globe, Soul Edge kept popping up." He sighed. "The most recent sighting being in 1591. Despite valiant efforts by knights, monks, Chinese imperial guards – and even ninjas, the Sword of Salvation was not to be denied. Practically indestructible, it may just be the key ingredient the company needs for our armor projects."

"Even if these fragments are of your little pipe dream, no one in the world's been able to determine exactly what compounds made them." She said. "Even I was looking into them too for a possible armor upgrade for XJ9. The only thing the scientific community is certain of is that they came about during the Iron Age – even before that! And even if we could determine consistencies, there's nothing to say that they're indeed from the strongest metallurgy discovered – when, in fact, it could be the most brittle due to high sulfur content."

"Believe what you will as will I." He sighed. "It doesn't matter to me if you don't. I've got a company to run. If you don't wish to share this interest of mine, I understand. I wouldn't believe anything I've said, too, but I'm afraid I've seen too much… as have you, _Fraülein_ Wakeman."

"Don't you _dare_ sick your goons on me, Johan!" the woman leapt to her angled feet. "XJ9's still home, I'll have you know!"

"You Americans are so paranoid!" He frowned. "I've not divulged any company secrets, this fascination of mine's not embarrassing in the least, and the company's too much to lose if dear Hans decides to run a bullet through you."

"Yes, you've much to lose!" Thin lips accented with red frowned, strongly. "You've much to lose if you don't spill what's going on with my daughter!"

"The learned mage of logic and reason stumped by her creation's bizarre behavior?" he smirked. "Walking around with a chip on her shoulder, beating the hapless within an inch of their lives – crossing almost the line that should never be toed? Am I still right?"

"Enough games, Johan!" she shouted. "No more distractions, no more useless legends and here-say! You're going to tell me what's happening to XJ9 – or I swear little Hans won't have the chance to touch his pistol!"

"Haven't you listened at all this past hour or so?" again, his belly churned for another Haus Brinkmann. "The clues and hints I've been giving you? I didn't tell you straight out for I thought you, the great Dr. Nora Wakeman, could piece it together on your own."

"This isn't a Sherlock Holmes mystery or a scientific conundrum!" she growled. "Diatribes of your company's need and a soul-sucking sword are as useful to me as a euro! This is my daughter we're talking about – and I'll be _damned_ if your little mind games get in the way! Now, are you going to tell me or do I have to pound it out of you!?"

Hans promptly cleared his throat; still he held up his hand in gentle protest.

"I shall tell you." He nodded. "But as I've said yesterday, I have a little proposition for you and dear Jennifer."

The funny, old woman bared her teeth, eyes narrowed behind those cola-bottle frames as her throat let out a rabid growl. Though she did ease away when his palm met the armrest again, simply; achy, it surely did feel.

"Don't you dare raise your pistol to me, little man!" she shot an accusing finger past his head. "I may be old and frail, but not old enough to bend you over this knee!"

"Better watch what you say, _fraülein_." He said. "Hans has a penchant for getting… how do you say – a little '_freaky_'. You should've seen him in Rotterdam! It took an act of God to bail him out after a late night at the brothel."

"Surely, I could use some space-cake about now." His employee thought aloud.

"Considering you inhaled all the hotel's Beck's, you'd be lucky if I don't decide to strip you of your Pain-station!" his eyes rolled.

Hans thought aloud no more, thankfully.

"Okay, Mr. Pie-man…!" thin lips pursed, sourly. "Woo me with your wares…."

"As I've said before," he took in a shallow breath, "I wouldn't have wasted our time if I absolutely knew my quest was a pipe dream. But after reading about poor Philip Watkins back in Düsseldorf, I'm certain that my hypothesis is valid and the _Schwarzwind_ will surely break free of its slump. Fragments may be scattered across the globe still, but there's no doubt that the spirit of Soul Edge has made yet another appearance… which your precious XJ9 is paying for, dearly."

"And how did you come to that conjecture?" her rump met the couch with _humph!_

"Please, _Fraülein _Wakeman." He snorted. "Certainly you find her recent behavior unusual, at the very least. It appears to this knowledgeable man that she's come into intimate contact with Soul Edge—"

"_INTIMATE!?_" Drained of what little color, the old woman nearly fainted.

"Not that kind of intimacy." Outwardly, he held up his hands again. "Still, she's symptomatic of one whose had prolonged exposure its aura - the 'Evil Seed', I call it."

"Evil… _Seed…?_" she blinked.

"Similar, in concept, to what had transpired across the globe in the sixteenth century." He continued. "The disaster in China's fabled Ling-Sheng Su Temple the most notable. In short, when anyone has come into prolonged contact with Soul Edge's aura, they devolve immediately! A deranged savage is a blessing compared to a special unfortunate, such as the tragedy of dear Philip Watkins. Should Jenny too be a special unfortunate, I don't know. Time will tell – one can only imagine what the Evil Seed could work on a robot of such sophistication."

"Slowly but surely, her ghost is becoming unstable." She sighed, dejectedly. "An unknown virus combined with raw data from the past few days have essentially been enhancing the sentry protocols. She's becoming more erratic and aggressive by the hour, so the logs have shown – and who knows how long before she's gone completely haywire!"

"Such is the fate of those cursed by the Seed." He nodded. "I know it's a lot to ingest, so different from what you've come to know and believe is real… but – what else can you go on at this point?"

"…There must be some way to stop it, permanently!" reluctantly, she nodded. "Isn't there?"

"Soul Edge has existed since prehistory." He shook his head. "Of course, it has been shattered several times over, and new massacres ensue when an eager servant takes it upon himself to restore its form and power. Yet every time the Sword of Salvation rears its nasty, bloodied spine, so does its counterpart."

"This soul-sucking sword has a counterpart?" eyes blinked behind cola-bottle lenses.

"Certainly." His hand slipped behind the lapel for the flat square within the jacket. "It's basic logic, _fraülein_: for without one, there is no purpose for the other. There's an antithesis to Schtauffen's Legacy, a beautifully ornate _Jian_ no longer than three feet: the Soul Calibur.

"Once but a large shard from Soul Edge, it was purified by a hero king's most powerful mage. Several attempts had been made before the actual sword came into existence, but only at the cost of the king's very life. Whenever Soul Edge once again made an appearance to the world, you can bet your house that Soul Calibur was there, as well."

"And where would one find this Soul Calibur, Mr. Schwartz?" she asked.

"Where one could find either the Edge or the Calibur, the counterpart surely would not be far behind." He replied.

Raincoat-yellow arms folded, crossly; a growl escaping her black-swathed neck as a brow irritably kinked above those ridiculously thick frames.

"Honestly!" he held up his hands again. "That's what the research has come to! You honestly think I'd be here if I knew—?"

"Mom!" the maid of the hour made known with a call. "I heading off to school now."

Plodding steps gently descended from above, a large smudge of blue arced off the bottom stair and onto the floor. An imposing pair of thick, cyan boots up to a simple skirt and bulky tank of equal shade, the automaton stood as tall as he – perhaps taller with the streamlined tails strikingly jutting off the beach ball of a head. Large eyes of glassy black gazed at him with passing scrutiny when it turned his way.

Again Hans cleared his throat – at a whir, a blocky pigtail trained its jagged curve past his head with military precision.

"Try me!" it challenged with a stern frown. "I'm sure you won't like _it—!_"

Taken aback, the faux girl took back a step as the funny, old woman rushed at it with yellow arms wide open. Both nearly took a fall as little Nora wrapped her arms tightly around the cylinder of a waist.

"Mom…?" glassy eyes blinked. "What're you…?"

"Can't this mother embrace her child like all the others on the planet?" the fickle woman asked. "You're a growing robot, after all. It's not like you're going to be around forever, you know… or me, for that matter. I just want to treasure each moment I can."

A black eye rolled his direction; coyly, his eyes rolled for the corners.

"Who're the suits?" it asked.

"Don't mind baldy and the goon." The woman dismissed; he frowned. "They'll be leaving shortly, anyway. You focus simply on having a good day today at school. I'll be here, like always, when you get home."

Lids both ascended and descended to form a sort of primitive kink.

"_Okay…!_"

Like a typical mother and daughter, the two incredibly made. Inconsequence and a soft gut churning despite, tingling eyes could not help but watch in such magnificent awe. Never before, did he believe his fouled body would last to be witness to such an achievement – a testament of Wakeman's brilliance and talent, truly. Automaton endowed with the soul of a human girl, man's ever-fleeting presence stood on the very cusp of life eternal. Possibilities within the good doctor's rippling wake had become limitless.

_Such a shame, it was that such promise would have to be undoubtedly broken soon enough… _


	7. Chapter VII

VII

Treading down the cramped corridor, her old woman's voice rang strongly through her clomping on the simple tile.

"_You may be a robot, Jennifer, but you're more than a simple machine." _It was but a fresh byte in the RAM, but a whisper in the living room. _"You're my daughter, bound hardly to immutable protocols and processes – a free soul! Search deep within your ghost – deep within your _soul_ and choose your own path – your own destiny. Believe it!"_

"What does she mean?" her head could not help but shake. "Why's she saying this to me…?"

"Saying what, Jen?"

A blink, a twist of the neck and Bradley was at her side, a gentle kink below that pointy outcropping of auburn.

"Oh – Brad!" she blinked again. "Sorry, I didn't know you were there. How long were you here?"

"Since you strolled past the front door." He shrugged. "I said hello but it seems you were too busy sulking 'bout something. I think I know why, come to think. Was it about yesterday afternoon?"

"I did it again, Brad!" clenching her fists, her knuckles let out a _pop_. "First Phil – and now a common thug! How long before I completely lose it!?"

"Calm down, Jen." A fleshy hand capped atop her shoulder. "Phil was purely self-defense, the thug's still alive – in ICU – but alive nonetheless. It's over now…."

"What am I going to do?" her eyes squeezed shut. "Tell me – what am I going to do…? What if I freak again? What if I go after you, Tuck, or even Mom? I couldn't live with myself if something happened to either of you!"

"Jen, is something wrong?" he blocked her path, standing before her firmly. Wide, dark eyes so open and warm, she did not want to look at them, straightly. "Whatever's on your chest, just let it out or you'll make yourself sick."

"But…" her sigh shaky and erratic, "I'm a robot. I can't get sick."

"True," he nodded, "but it looks like this one's on the verge of mental collapse. Go ahead and tell me. I'm not little, loud-mouth Tuck, you know."

"Tuck!" she sniffed, vision a flicker as her lids batted. "Oh God…!"

"Tuck's okay, Jen." The other hand of flesh capped her opposite shoulder, firmly. "He's been okay since seven this morning. Right now, I think he's having morning recess if he's not playing mind games with the teacher."

"You mean – he's not…?"

"Did something happen last night, Jen?" he pressed. "A bad dream, perhaps?"

"It was terrible, Brad!" she sniffed. "Tremorton was a complete wreck! Mom was dead, Tuck was dead, and you were… God – if I felt like vomiting, I would."

"We were killed?" he asked.

"Murdered!" she shook her head. "Stabbed, disemboweled, and torn to pieces – and _I did it!_ I did it all… and… I actually _enjoyed_ it! It's like I couldn't get enough, so I massacred the entire city! Never had I processed – had I _felt_ such pleasure – and never had I felt so scared!"

"Calm down, Jenny." Brad gave her a little shake. "It's a dream, just random pictures in your head playing out a scenario – nothing less, nothing more—"

"But it is more…!" a gentle whir, her hand rubbed at her right arm. "After my sleep cycle this morning, my arm went berserk! Tried to gouge my eyes out – nearly succeeded if I didn't stick my finger in the wall socket! It's been twitching all morning…."

"That's weird." The smooth brow went into another kink.

The rusty boy almost topped over when against him she leaned, heavily. A byte of touch only within the pit of her arm, still her arms were tight around his neck.

"_Whoa…!_" his protest weak.

"Killing, maiming, 'dreams' of boundless slaughter!" she could not help but sob. "Murdering my friends – my _family…!_ What's happening to me, Brad!? I'm scared…!"

"Jenny…!" with a huff, Brad made her fat heels meet the tile once more. Her arms clanged against her sides, reluctantly. "Jenny, Jenny…. I don't know what you're thinking or what you believe, but right now I know you're right in front of me, doing no harm to anyone here! It was just a bad dream, nothing more!"

"I hope so…." Her palm met her chest, questing for certain reassurance with a gentle rub. "But I want you to promise me something, Brad."

"Certainly!" he smiled. "What can I do you for…?"

"I want you to promise me." Habitually, she took in a breath. "Promise me that if something bad happens, if I lose it completely that you'll stop me no matter what it takes!"

Lids of flesh parted wide on that boyish face, incredulously.

"But Jen—!" he could not finish.

She did not let him.

"No matter what it takes." She pressed. "Understand?"

"Okay." With reluctance, he gave a simple bob of the head. "I promise."

"Don't be so gloomy." Her reply a weak smirk. "I'm a robot, after all. You can rebuild me – you've the technology! You've the capability to remake the world's first robotic teenager. Jenny Wakeman will be that teenager – better than she was before, better… stronger… faster!"

Her smirk growing into a guilty smile, her extended index curled, gradually.

"_Na-na-na-na-na-na…!_" she laughed.

Dark eyes wide with quizzicality, Bradley was predictably lost.

"You don't watch Nick at Night, do you?" her arms folded.

"Nope." He shook his head. "I've been swamped all weekend with homework from other classes. Can you believe what Peters wants us to do for Environmental Science? She wants us – actually _wants_ us to go around and collect garbage for the weekend and write a paper 'bout it! 'The Wonderful World of Refuse'! Does she honestly think we can stretch that _wonderful_ weekend into a four-page report?"

"One-inch margins, double spaced!" she noted. "It shouldn't be that difficult. Frankly, I'm wondering how I did after our field trip Friday. I think I got at least a B, but as long as I passed, I'm happy."

"Thinking 'bout Friday, did you see Solomon around?" Brad asked. "I haven't seen him since last night."

"He's probably in homeroom right now." She shrugged. "But right now, I've someone I'd like to see before the bell rings."

"Really?" Boots taking turns before each other, his voice was but a struggling call in the shifting, boisterous chatter of the hall. "Who'd that be?"

"My secret." She smirked. "I'll see you a bit later, okay?"

---

So abrupt, so sudden, the past several minutes had proved unexpected to Sheldon. Graced him at his locker had sweet Galatea, embracing him at first in thanksgiving over the debacle of yesterday. No sooner had her greasy arms slipped off his shoulders did she speak of her troubles, her nightmare, the fidgety arm, and the utter uncertainty swirling within her being.

Perhaps a night on the town would be just thing to ease her troubled mind – simply as friends, much to certain chagrin.

"I process that I might like that, Sheldon." She put a shapely digit to her cute chin. "But only as _friends…!_"

"Don't worry 'bout it, Jen." He smirked. "With me at your side, I'm sure that you can find at least something 'bout the whole thing as entertaining in the least."

"Entertaining, indeed!"

Noted a voice familiar, too prim and proper to be typical of Tremorton High's depreciated body.

"You can say that again, girl!"

Another familiar voice affirmed, snide and melodramatic, characteristic all too well of the city's _favorite_ 'wigger', a surprise hardly to him or dear Galatea. The presence of the lonely in-crowd daunting, still he casually turned on the heel of his sneaker. Pompous grins encroached by layers of make-up, they sneered painfully as Jennifer turned – _grinded_.

Pointy pigtails arced behind that round head, jadedly.

"Brit…." It came out like a sigh. "Tiff…."

"I say!" the dark girl incredibly exclaimed through those beaver incisors. "A spit-shined bucket-o'-bolts leading a geek to its trough! It's like some crappy circus straight from the former Soviet Union, wouldn't you say?"

"Freaks of a feather walk together!" the littlest wigger laughed.

Jenny angled into a gentle hunch, dejectedly with a sigh. Irritably, his brow furrowed.

"Jenny's been through a lot over the weekend!" he frowned. "Can't you two leave her alone – just for one day?"

"What fun would that be, Shell-_dork?_" the midget's wrists met those saddlebags with zest chokingly thick with ebony flavor. "Boy, don't even get us started on you! What kind of sick punk would fall for this freak? Not packing enough heat _down under_ or what?"

Beside herself, Jenny was alone, lifting not a shapely digit at all.

"I'm a sick punk!?" his arms crossed. "I'm A SICK PUNK!? Considering she could've left you to burn after _you_ shorted out her safety override her first day here! Setting the school on fire, putting everyone's life in danger 'cause you had to prove a point – you two are the punks! Helping out, saving the day countess times, no one on the planet has a problem with Jennifer – just you two!"

A nerve plucked - boots stomped and fingerless gloves clenched irritably.

"Hey – we're aren't the ones in love with a sex robot!"

A clang ringing bluntly, Jenny's hands were too in a clench at a quick glance.

"Reproduction?" he scoffed. "Sex? Is that all you two think 'bout, trying to get into Don Prima's pants? How pitiful. As for me, I tend to pride myself a little more than my _assets…_"

"You _little—_" brow possibly furrowed beneath that tacky, pink cap, "yellow devil – I ought to pound the hell out of you!"

"Oh!" he frowned back. "So we're at the lowest common denominator already? I maybe Asian and not the smoothest guy on the block, but at least I'm comfortable in this shell, unlike you!"

"WHAT DID YOU SAY—!?" Tiff's little boots stomped again, as though the little girl meant something.

"Caucasian like most here, talking like you're purely 'street' yet your family's coffers are more bloated than Microsoft?" he asked, simply. "Is it that unbearable to be you that you have to put on a show for everyone else? Were you dropped on your head as a baby or did Mommy withhold her breast from you? Whatever happened, can anyone here say 'self-loathing'?"

"…You _LITTLE SHIT!_"

Boots squelching, the midget would have been atop of him if the bobble-head beside did not hold her back, firmly. A spectacle clear in the corridor, many a passerby had halted in the midst of hurried strides. Many eyes rolled upon him; he stood with crossed arms, firmly, defiantly, ensuring his face pulled into an expression unimpressed.

"Tiff!" Bobble-head grunted through large buckteeth. "Calm down!"

"Let me at him!" the midget scrambled against thin, fuchsia limbs. "_LET ME AT HIM – _he's going _DOWN!!_"

"We're the ones going down to the VP's office if you don't settle!" Brittany exclaimed. "Detention's not our bag – we've other commitments!"

"But—!" Tiff's simple protest was weak.

"No – buts!" with a huff, the bobble-head pushed her midget back a step. "We've a flight for Florida in a few days, do you really want to tell my father why we can't be on the Adrian II if we're stuck here!"

"Oh… _phooey!_" the wigger folded those sticks for arms. "Today's your lucky day, Shell-dork! Pull this bull-crap on me again and don't count on another! You're _this _close to a serious beating!"

Tiff pinched her fingers, appropriately.

"And you are _this_ close to your homeroom!" he gestured back with a smirk. "The bell's about to ring, anyway. If you don't want a nice face-to-face with everybody's favorite VP, I suggest you get moving."

The gruesome-twosome promptly graced him with their backsides, storming away with a huff.

"Up yours, jive turkey!" at the midget's impulsive whim, a thin bird flashed at him.

The door of their unfortunate homeroom refitted within its frame with a rattling bang. The cousins of Krust deflated a bit of hot air, the crowd encircling bestowed upon him a hearty cheer before they abruptly dispersed.

Beside herself, Jenny was still; the dirty deed done, his furrowed brow could not help but soften.

"Jenny." His hand on that bulky top, cold poked deeply into his palm. "Jenny…! You can come back. They're gone now."

"Sheldon…." She sniffed. "Thank you."

"Of course, Jenny." He nodded. "Just like Bradley or Tucker, I'm here for you."

She angled back for him, gradually, digits uncurling with a gentle whirr. Warmth blushed within as those beautiful eyes looked upon him, warmly.

"You do care about me." She smiled, weakly. "Who else would stand up to the Krust cousins like that?"

"You just now noticed that?" he blinked.

"No." Pigtails slightly jerked as she shook her head. "I've noticed it for a while – but why? I'm not human. I'm still a robot! I can't feel, I can't reproduce – I was designed as a sentry. Of all things, why do you feel anything for something that can barely feel at all?"

"I can't answer in a satisfactory way."

Brazenly, he placed his hand upon her cheek – which was not swatted away at all! It was as though she actually wanted it.

"Perhaps I've learned to look beyond the shell and circuitry and see the person deep within." He smiled. "And what I see is a person wonderful and affectionate, even though she at a crossroads, at the moment. Something might very well blossom down the road, but I'm not sure when it will."

"Sheldon…." His chest tingled when she capped his hand with her own.

"Any guy will be lucky to have you, Jen." He nodded. "That's all I know for sure."

She smiled, warmly.

"I'd… better get going." Gently, she removed his hand. "Homeroom's about to start. You'd better get going, too. I'll see you later."

An _oomph _little in her big step, she strolled her way down the clearing hallway. Another smile pulled at his lips at the sheer content he saw beaming in those glossy eyes before the back of her round head concealed them. Barely eight in the morning and already his day was as bright as the summer sun – he simply knew—!

"And Shell." Jenny called from down the hall.

Still he played it cool.

"Yes, Jen?" he asked.

"I'm… looking forward to our little date." She said.

He smiled—

It clicked; realization dawned on him, swiftly. His cheeks hot to the touch, palms suddenly clammy, and warmth so hot it was overwhelming! His knees weak, they buckled; the ceiling drew down before him and the floor pressed against his back, harshly.

Completely overwhelmed him, the feeling certainly did.

_She said 'date'…!_

_---_

A day typical at school over, the very institution treated to the sight of her hips rolling, whirring away, Jennifer could not wait to pass through her front door again. Seven hours past had been strange; cousins of Krust defeated in a heated spar of verbal judo, and never in her short tenure did she process that a night with little Sheldon could prove satisfying.

Victory's sweet taste a lingering bitter, she longed for a nice bath of acid while a LED in her sight demanded a full-course meal of Quaker State with every blink.

"Or some Pennzoil would be nice, haven't downed any in a long time." She processed aloud. "Then again, that stuff does cause the flow to back up, so maybe I'm better off sticking with the Q…."

"Thinking 'bout dinner already, Jen?" Beside her, Bradley had asked with an eye on the wristwatch. "It's barely three-PM!"

"Sub-edible cafeteria shortening does little for this chassis." Her palm met her belly bolt with a bang. "Way too much glycerin, it's amazing this pacemaker of mine's still ticking. Since my fuel lines are rubber, I shouldn't even be eating it!"

"I guess so." He nodded. "I've been eating too much of that junk! This manly figure of mine can't keep in shape on that lard. Maybe I should start bringing bagged lunches from now on."

"You and I both." She nodded back.

"So word 'round school's that you and Sheldon are having a night out." He said. "Any particular reason – celebrating the Krusts' utter defeat at his hands and all? Or maybe you've actually fallen for him—!"

A boot tapped his shin; she wasn't going to say anything.

"OW!" he jumped, singly, with a hand on his foreleg. "Hey—!"

"It's for horses, don't you know." She smirked. "Yes, Shell and I are having a night out together – and _no_ – it's not a date! I just wanted to thank him for both yesterday and the Krusts. He may not be smooth or much of a looker, but he should feel good 'bout himself… even if it's completely unjustified!"

Eyes of dark brown blinked, thoughtfully.

"Odd…!" he put a finger to his chin. "Where've I heard that before…?"

Nothing, she said.

"Or not." He shook his head. "Oh – have you seen Solomon around? Where the heck is that little necromancer?"

"Solomon's okay." She nodded. "He just called in sick. He did wake up in the cutlery rather grouchy, from what I've heard."

"Both being the new guy and getting knocked out by little Sheldon Lee?" he replied. "I wouldn't want to show my face either. I just hope someone gives him the notes for Western Civilization 2 and social studies. A couple pages in and a tangent by the teach, I'm not sure even you know what the heck's going on."

The two courses did little to maintain the status quo, Bradley was certainly right. Western civilization and social studies seemed intent on the days and age of the late 1500s – as though the administration itself ensured the dubious terror of the "Azure Knight" be brought to light. Violence and madness resonating deep from within the armor, victims countless crumbling to bloody pieces with a huge sweep of its sword, a couple of kids on the up-and-up had snidely omitted Azure rather in favor of a lighter shade.

_More like the 'Cyan Knight' nowadays, don't y'all think…?_ Mocked the process, cruelly.

"I'd rather not say anything." She sighed.

"You still miffed over western civil?" he asked. "Forget about her, Jen. Ten to one, everything bad will blow over by the end of the week – our _last _week, I should say!"

"It's summer!" she smiled, gently. "Good, I could use a bit of a break. Any big plans for the Carbuncles?"

"Not really." He shrugged. "Just fun, the yellow ball in the sky, and relaxation."

"I think I might join you." She nodded.

"Fine with me!" he said. "Beats just having Tuck around."

The Wakeman Estate imposing towered over them a little bit more with each step. Bright sun hidden by the roof expansive, the shade must have been to Bradley as pleasantly thick. Lids of flesh closed, the small stoop caught him by the loafer in the midst of his stride. Kissed the cement, he nearly did if her digits had not seized him by the collar of a crisp fold.

"Watch your step." Upright, she pulled him back. "First step's a wallop!"

"So is a collar garrote—!" A hand rubbed at his throat while he hacked out a cough. "Boy – that sucked…!"

"Sorry!" Her index let out a whir, the tip arcing back against the fore-knuckle as out a key slipped, cleanly. A quiet ripping, the key slipped into the deadbolt flawlessly, negotiating the bar back into the door with an easy twist of the wrist. "Look where you're going and I won't have to catch you."

Backing out with a subtle _rip_, the key whirred back into her closing finger as her made the knob rattle in the door. Another twist and the thick plank arced easily open with a gentle push.

"Mom!" she called, habitually. "Mother, I'm home. Brad's with me, just so you know…."

"That's fine, dear." Her old woman called back, the arpeggio wavy as ever. "Come to living room. There's someone who wants to speak with you!"

She blinked.

"'Speak' with me?" she suspiciously asked. "About what? If this is 'bout yesterday, the primary officer said not to worry!"

"It's not a couple of Tremorton's finest, if that's what you're thinking." The woman replied. "Rather, it's someone a little more cultured. Don't just stand there – come in! You're letting flies in!"

Her steps heavy on the hardwood, lighter ones followed just behind as an arm blindly closed the door.

"Brad, stay here." She whispered. "Just in case. Something doesn't compute, correctly."

"I know what you mean." He whispered back. "Take the point."

Took point, she readily did, dropping to a crouch as boots carefully negotiated her over to the adjacent doorframe—

"You might as well walk in, honey." Her mother said. "With your boots, I practically heard you on the stoop! Don't be paranoid – I'm perfectly fine. Now stop with the games and get your little behind in here. We've company, after all."

A sigh of disgust, her back unrolled from the hunch. A hand extended kept her friend safely at bay as she carefully walked into the living room, taking her sweet time.

Comfortably on the couch, vision caught sight of the greasy shine atop the bald, old suit's head. A thin shaft of paper singed, thick wisps of gray plumed up into oblivion from out the hairy mouth of dirty gray. Stiffly beside stood another neatly pressed suit, hands together and poised neutrally at his waist, aviator glasses gazed back at her darkly.

"You two again!" she frowned.

A fleeting drone blaring against her tympanums – a single insect of yellow and black buzzed past her head, yet even it could not hold a sharp point to that overgrown pest nestled comfortably on the couch. The soldier behind clearing his throat with certain delight, the jagged point of her pigtail had little trouble pointing at it.

"Forgotten already, have we?" motors buzzed behind her eyes as she furrowed her brow. "Go for your jacket and you'll find out what this little sucker's all about!"

With hurried steps, Bradley retook his position comfortably beside.

"Are these guys little parasites or what?"

The baldy shot back, simply with a kink of the greasy brow.

"Typical American children." The elderly man said through a lengthy draw. "No manners! _Herr_ Hans Frederick just behind me has a problem with phlegm, nothing less and nothing more. Does all stateside television make everyone paranoid?"

Her pigtail trained upon that monarch knot of red still.

"Put that toy away!" the man frowned. "You're already spoiling my smoke! If Hans wanted to decommission you, he would've already did it by now."

"It's okay, Jennifer." An arm of raincoat yellow lifted up from the high-back chair. "They come in peace… even though they've been a distraction since Sunday afternoon."

Her old woman of sound mind, timbre and frequency hinting not of distress, yet her tail took its time whirring back to neutral. A little Mr. Hans did ease his posture, hands poised easily at his waist.

"Okay...!" She said in a suspicious drawl. "Unless you want me to dub you 'Mr. Baldy', would you mind telling me your name?"

"Don't bother, Jen." At a glance, Brad too narrow his gaze. "He's Johan Schwartz of some big time security firm out of Germany."

"That's _Schwarzwind_, Incorporated, my young man." The baldy breathed in another drag.

"Whatever…!" the boy dismissed with a moan.

"Hello to you too, you little brat!" Schwartz frowned.

"'Black wind…?'" she blinked.

"_Ich fass' es nicht!_" the hairy mouth smiled. "Dr. Wakeman, you didn't tell me she could speak _Deutsche!_"

"German, Arabic, English, Spanish, you name it!" her funny, old woman exclaimed, proudly. "Though there was an embarrassing stint when she lost her English disk in Tokyo—"

"_Mom…!_" her eyes simply had to take a lap around their sockets. "Don't tell them that – it's embarrassing!"

"Amazing, _Fraülein—!_" the baldy choked on the drag. "_Um_—simply amazing… a robot with the heart of a human girl. I thought I would never see the day when there'd be such a homogenous synergy."

"Neither could I." Mom replied. "Hard work pays off with a hint of sheer luck, and I could not be happier with the results."

Flattered or suspicious, Jenny could not be certain of which to subscribe.

"Yeah…." Her brow softened with a simple kink. "Mom, do you mind explaining what's going on here?"

"To be honest," Mother's bent, extended arm motioned a shrug, "I don't know! In fact, we've been waiting for you to get home. And since my daughter is – in fact – back home, do you finally mind stating your business, Mr. Schwartz?"

"Since I and _Herr _Frederick had the 'pleasure' of meeting your daughter when she wasn't in a broken heap," the baldy took in another drag, "I believe the time's finally come. Interestingly enough, even I was growing tired of my twisted rigmarole."

"Musing over it isn't helping." A yellow pump tapped against the carpet, impatiently.

"True." That greasy head bobbed. "As your mother well knows by now, dear Jennifer, I and _Herr _Frederick of 'Black Wind' are here after reading about Friday's unfortunate mishap. Tragic that poor Philip Watkins' life had to be ended so suddenly, but it couldn't have been avoided."

"Don't remind me!" she cursed.

"A child lost within the darkness of the mystic arts and the arcane and his sudden transformation into a complete abomination," baldy mused, almost romantically, "Friday's bizarre incident led us in _Schwarzwind_ to believe that a certain object we've quested after for some time was involved."

She blinked, incredulously.

"Let me guess, Mr. Schwartz." Brad said, cynically. "This all has to do with that certain soul-eating, freaky-eyeball sword?"

"The very same." He nodded. "The wicked sword of demonic infamy. It seems that little Philip Watkins had bitten off more than he could chew."

"Swords and Souls…" digits rubbed at her brow, touchily. "Man – why does everything go back to that damn legend—?"

"Watch your mouth, young lady!" Mother noted, loudly, _embarrassingly._

"It's just that, Mr. Schwartz!" Brad stated, quite loudly. "It's a stinking legend! Don't insult our intelligence! You honestly flew all this way from the EU over this madness?"

"Indeed, I have." Harry lips pulled into a smirk just behind that smoldering nub. "I'm positive I didn't waist my time, money, or – most importantly – cigarettes over mere poppycock. I'm sure the countless hours of research the _Schwarzwind_ did won't be in vain."

"If you're so dang confident, then what do you want with me?" she promptly asked. "Your company seems loaded – can't they do something about it?"

"You may be a robot, but you're still just a child." He laughed. "Sometime, I'm sure you'll see that I'm not here simply for my benefit, but for yours as well."

Her brow kinked again, firmly.

"My _benefit…?_"

"Listen to the man, Jennifer." In, her mother simply had to chime. "Then you can decide."

"Thank you, _Fraülein _Wakeman." Pinstriped elbows met pinstriped knees as the old man intently leaned into a hunch. "I'm sure you'll be interested in what I have to say a little later, but first I have for both you and your 'mother' a generous proposition…!"


	8. Chapter VIII

VIII

"To put it bluntly, dear Jennifer," the baldy snuffed his smoldering nub in the flat, glass bowl beside the couch, "_Schwarzwind_, Incorporated is looking to procure the very Sword of Salvation or even its many fragments for research and development of new alloys – much like your mother had hoped to do. We would very much like to contract you to hunt for the sword or the fragments, as many as you can collect within your ten-week break."

"You want me," she blinked, "a crime-fighting sentry, to trek the globe for the very sword of this eponymous legend…?"

"Cost is of little consequence to the company." He said. "We're willing to compensate you generously for your troubles, repairs, upgrades, or even simple capital."

"But why me?" she pressed. "There're better qualified people for this sort of thing, aren't there?"

"Certainly, there are," Mr. Schwartz replied, "but we're running a little short on time and manpower. We need something that can cross the lands and seas, expediently. And I can think of no one more suited for the job than you, dear Jennifer."

"And what makes you think I want to?" arms buzzed as she folded them across her chest. "'Souls and Swords' an interesting legend, of course, but what if I have prior engagements already?"

"Like fun, the sun, and goofing off…?" in, her mother just had to toss in her two cents.

"So what if it is?" she frowned. "It's my life, after all."

"Dear Jennifer," the older man lifted his hand – a snap cracking from his awkwardly closed fingers, "you see, I'm a firm believer in mutualism. I'm not offering this simply for my benefit, but also for yours."

The top of his head a wavy brown cap, bent down little Hans did at the waist. A squeezed grunt, back up he unrolled with an impressive suitcase in hand. Twisting around, Mr. Schwartz took it simply by the leather-wrapped grip. Thin hinges of brass held the case closed, she saw, as the baldy set it upon the coffee table.

"My benefit, eh…?" her gaze narrowed. "They say strangers have the best candy, too…."

"XJ9!" her mother exclaimed. "He may be a bit of a whelp, but you'll still treat company with respect! You're not too heavy to bend over this knee, young lady!"

"Teens will be teens, _fraülein._" A couple of clicks squealing, the case flashed her its leather-bound lid. "Bursting from their cocoons of childhood, blossoming into adulthood with open wings, yet the concept of dyads still eludes them. So, it seems, they deliberately test us in a half-baked attempt to discover it for themselves."

"Whatever floats your boat." She dismissed.

"_Jennifer…!_" her mother growled.

"Don't worry, Dr. Wakeman." A gnarled hand guided the lid shut. "I'm sure I've the thing that'll get her attention—"

A quick arm shoved Bradley behind as buckling knees dropped her into a gentle crouch.

"That'd better not be a weapon!" she yelled. "I've had it up to here with guns!"

"Paranoia will get you nowhere, dear Jenny." Object hidden deep within his fist, the man pushed to his loafers, indifferently. "Actions understandable, but you shouldn't be so quick to judge. I'm not sure, but I believe it's bad for your ghost."

"What're you up to?" she frowned.

"A demonstration, perhaps." Wide loafers of rich brown closer carried the suit, arms of pinstripe squarely behind the back. "Perhaps you should see, even feel why this little proposition isn't something to turn a closed eye."

A couple feet away, the jagged point of her pigtail trained onto that dome of greasy sheen.

"That's close enough!" she barked. "Put your hands where I can see them!"

Fists arced neutrally from behind, outwardly knuckles pointing as sharp shoulders pulled them into a shrug. Harry corners pulled his lips into a gentle smirk.

"As you wish, dear Jenny."

Slowly, a bulky fist moved carefully towards her head, she could see jagged outcroppings of plastic peeking from out his clenched fingers. Fingers suddenly unwrapping, her pigtail twitched needlessly as a small sample bag dropped from his loose grip. Pinched tightly between thin pieces of foggy plastic sat a fat sliver of murky dark—

Her arm twitched – digits jerking, servos an angry buzz as the whole limb was caught in a violent tremble.

"_NO!_" placid digits immediately clamped upon the climbing forearm. "No – not _again…!_"

"JEN!" Brad had whipped around, instantly, futilely. "What's wrong!?"

Mother finally left the comfort of the high-back chair with a leap.

"XJ9!" the old woman cried in her trademark wave. "_Jenny!_"

"My ARM!" she grunted. "Can't… _control – it…!_"

The piece dangling before her, it suddenly was lost to the back corner of the room after a swift, backhanded swat. Knocked too away, the rusty boy suddenly found himself on his backside.

"GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME!!" she growled. "Someone – help _ME!_"

"On it!" The rusty boy called.

Bradley scrambled to his loafers, hurrying out of the living room without a second thought. Mother rendered stiff, paralyzed in disbelieving shock, yet nothing stopped Schwartz from that indifferent leer, smug smirk stretched within that encroaching beard of dirty gray.

"You sick _BASTARD!_" she screamed. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME…!?"

Erratic fingers straight like a spear, her good hand could barely hold them at bay as they eagerly lunged for her eyes. On still looked the old bastard, apathetically.

"Not a thing, dear Jenny." He shook his head. "Nothing that your own ghost isn't capable of, anyway."

An inch from her face, her good arm losing as twitching digits clawed for her eyes.

"Make it stop…!" she cried. "_Please…!_"

"This is madness, Schwartz!" Mom finally found her strong voice. "Make it stop – THIS INSTANT!"

"I'm afraid I can't, _Fraülein _Wakeman." A stubby digit pushed simply up the thin bridge of his glasses on his nose. "Her ghost's running its own program now."

"My ass, you old bastard!" the rattling strong, yet somehow her tympanums managed to pick up Brad. "Surf's up, Jen!"

In tight hands, Bradley had large bucket – a wave incandescent crystal splashed wetly onto her face at his whim. He winked – her rouge limb jerked, erratically! Caught in an awkward writhe, ragged strings of bright blue arced every which way across the wrist, the elbow, and her shoulder as her knees banged against the floor. Another hearty bang, the ceiling was bright through blue threads, quickly arcing over shaky eyes—

"Com – command c-c-connection – l-l-lost—!"

Sudden blackness consuming, she saw no more… for a moment.

---

His friend trapped in horrible seizure, Bradley had to do something – caring not for finesse, discretion, or a generous mess.

Suddenly knocked down, he had sprung to his feet at Jennifer's cry, rushing into the kitchen in a sprint full blown. Littered with refuse left to rot, the stink had fouled his nose as he easily closed the distance between him and the soiled tub. A sharp snort did little as he ducked for the little doors below, an orange bucket greeting him as the doors parted wide for his hasty hands. Once so light, the tap generously made it a burden within a matter of seconds. Did wonders, it must had on his arms and shoulders while he carted it into the living room.

Told the terrified girl of the low tide, shoulders were relieved of the burden while its load widely found its target. Bright flashes – he blinked as strips of hot blue arced throughout her being. Words a flat stutter, Jenny had collapsed to the floor in heap, wisps steaming rivaled those of the bald bastard's favorite pastime.

"Jenny!" the old woman awkwardly rushed for her creation. "_Jenny—!_"

"Doc, is she—?" he could not finish.

"No," the doctor would not let him, "the water simply shorted her out. Other than that, she seems okay. Either way, I'm going to have to initiate an emergency reboot."

The old woman pressed that metallic neck, firmly, the process already begun with a drawl of a whir.

"It should take a minute or two." The woman took to a knee, closely. "Whether her fit had passed or not, that's yet to be seen. Prepare for the worst. Brad, you'd better get another bucket of water ready – just in case!"

"Not before I get some answers!" he exclaimed.

Floorboards banging underfoot, that bald, greasy cap towered over him by a little more than a foot. Piercing blue eyes behind those traces of wire shot him an indifferent glance.

"What was that shard, Schwartz!?" he pushed to the stiff balls of his loafers. "What did you do to Jenny!?"

Eyes of blue rolled for him, indifferently.

"Nothing she wasn't capable of already, my boy." The geezer said, simply. "As I've said, it was but a demonstration for the skeptics present today."

Fists clenched, blood rushed hotly into his face.

"You call THAT a 'demonstration'!?" he shouted. "It was more like watching death shakes! What if she never recovers!? What happens to your little _proposition_ then, huh – CARE TO TELL ME THAT, MR. SCHWARTZ!?"

"Fear not, _Herr_ Brad." The baldy yawned. "A piece of the wicked spirit of Soul Edge, but it was not enough to completely overwhelm her."

"Are you telling me this sword actually exists?" he shot him a quizzical look.

"Haven't you been paying attention the past few days, my boy?" he shot back with a question. "Soul Edge is indeed real! This little demonstration was meant to show what happens when but a small fragment of the true blade comes into contact with one who's been exposed to its aura – contact direct or indirect. This would probably explain the bizarre rewrites of Jennifer's sentry protocols."

"There's no concrete proof of it, Mr. Schwartz!" the doctor shot back, her glare a hot dagger. "And if you must make a demonstration, would it behoove you _not_ to use my daughter as a plaything?"

"If I must." He sighed.

"Yes, you _must!_" the woman frowned. "When she wakes up, you'll be lucky you and little Hans aren't too a mess on the rug!"

"Ugh… Mom…?" came a groan like static.

"XJ9!" her mother exclaimed, lifting up her creation by the bulky top with a huff. "Jenny, are you alright…?"

"Mom…?" pigtails rattled as she sense shook back into her head. "What happened…?"

"You had a short in your arm—!" Glossy eyes opened wide, the doctor eased her daughter back onto the carpet. "But don't worry – it's passed. You're okay now."

"My arm…!" Jenny moaned. "The shard…!"

"Hans," twisting his pencil neck, Brad wished he could do it _for_ the badly as the man gave his underling a look, "would you mind putting the piece back into the case for me?"

"_Jawohl._" The underling suit nodded.

"_You…!_" Actuators hidden yanked Jenny's torso off the carpet with a bitter whine. "Bastard – WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO ME!?"

"You'd be wasting your breath, honey – if that were possible." Mrs. Wakeman kept her creation futilely at bay. "It'd take an act of the _Bundestag_ before he stops with the teasers—!"

"I DON'T CARE!" Jenny shouted. "WHAT THE HELL'S HAPPENING TO ME, SCHWARTZ!?"

A sigh, displeasure thick as a gnarled hand went for his jacket pocket.

"Should I explain or would anyone else like to?" The geezer's hand slipped back out with a flat, tin case in a pinch. "I'm growing bored of playing the answer man."

"_You're_ going to be stiffer than a board if YOU DON'T GIVE ME INFORMATION!" her steaming face painfully twisted in her seethe.

Pressed sleeves wrinkling within a crossed fold, he too let out a thick sigh.

_This geezer's worse than Solomon…_

"You've been tainted by an evil energy, Jenny." Tall quaff of wild white shook in solemn defeat; Jenny's brow kinked, firmly. "Practically, a computer virus! I know, I don't want to believe that either, but what I've seen today and yesterday puts almost everything in a different light."

"Soul Edge…?" she blinked. "Does that mean it actually—?"

"Yes, it's safe to say we've established that." He nodded, sullenly. "I don't want to believe it, but what other explanation we've got?"

"Before your fit, dear Jenny, you saw a confirmed fragment of the Sword of Salvation." Baldy pinched a thin shaft of paper between his hairy lips. "The shard you saw simply aggravated your infection – an infection which you must've caught sometime after the Watkins kid attempted his little spell. So – as you can hopefully see now, dear Jennifer, this little proposition of mine is for both our mutual gain."

"I'm out there, I bleed my fluids, and I get dismantled – not you!" she sneered. "It seems the only one getting anything out of it is you!"

"Oh – not at all, Jennifer." From loose fingers, a stifled _chink _– baldy touched the little, glowing nub to his cigarette. "With your help, we retrieve many fragments of the infamous sword or even the sword itself, and along your travels, you find an effective treatment for your ailment."

"The treatment can be worse than the disease, Mr. Schwartz." His friend noted, wryly with a suspicious eye. "What is it?"

"As you are well aware, Jenny," the geezer breathed in a small drag, "there are two mystical weapons of Souls and Swords: the demonic blade, Soul Edge and the holy sword, Soul Calibur. For without one, there is little or no purpose for the other. Throughout history and the world, the two have been fiercely entangled in an endless waltz – wherever you may find one, its counterpart should not be far behind.

"Knowing this, I'm hoping if you take up on my offer to search for the wicked blade, you too may stumble upon its rival."

"So you get two swords for the price of one!" she folded her arms, crossly. "Big tap-dancing whoop! How the heck does this help me?"

A gnarled hand met the greasy brow, exasperatedly, gradually sliding to the beard of dirty gray where it simply fell back at his side.

"Soul of human yet such an inferior mind!" Schwartz moaned. "Maybe I should drop the hints and vagaries altogether."

"You can be so dense sometimes, XJ9!" the doctor's eyes rolled behind those thick bottles. "You should know by now that two opposites – in a physical, mathematical sense – will cancel each other out. By chance if you do stumble upon this Soul Calibur, perhaps whatever low-level radiation it has could overpower the high jacking of your ghost!"

He could not help but blink, disbelievingly; Jennifer too shot her old woman a funny look.

"Mom?" she said, seriously. "You're honestly going along with everything he's saying? Do have any idea how completely… foolish everything sounds?"

"Does it now?" her old woman shot back. "By chance, do you have a better explanation of what's happening to you? I know you better than everyone else here – even I'm not certain what's going on! Perhaps another glance at Mr. Schwartz's fragment will enlighten us some more—"

"Not necessary." Exclamation like a sigh, it came out of the speaker like static, "I don't know, either…."

"I don't like this either, Jenny," her mother said, "but it's the only lead we've at the moment. As a learned scientist, I should base only my decisions on irrefutable, empirical findings – but as your mother, I believe that we should wholeheartedly explore this route a little deeper—"

"Mom!" Jenny exclaimed again. "You can't be serious!"

"I've hardly been this serious before." The old woman nodded. "We'll never know till we give it a try. The legend most likely is doubtful at best, but I think this'll be a wonderful opportunity to see more of the world than you've experienced before, people, culture – the whole nine yards! Not saving it from alien invasion or a meteor, but experiencing it first hand as you gallivant the planet.

"Besides, I'll be damned before I let you stay home your entire summer break!"

"Aw – _Mom…!_"

"Does this mean that you'll take up on my offer, Dr. Wakeman?" Chrome-dome asked with a perk of interest on his greasy brow.

"With great reluctance!" the white quaff bounced, singly. "Since this virus is quickly eating away her ghost, Jenny has only a short time – quite possibly till the end of her ten-week break! And just how long will this little expedition of yours last, Mr. Schwartz?"

"_Schwarzwind's_ search for Schtauffen's Legacy is currently in its 10th year, _Fraülein_ Wakeman." The old man took in another drag. "But for the sake of Jennifer's involvement, let's round it out to her last week of her summer vacation."

"By then, her ghost will have become too corrupted to repair at this rate." The old woman nodded. "Sword or not, you must find and upload a serious anti-virus program before then!"

"I'm… still in the room, you know." Jenny noted, simply.

"Agreed." Indifferently, the baldy turned for his aid after a single nod. "Hans, get headquarters on the phone, immediately. I want S-and-T and R-and-D's best people on this project at once – priority one! Tell them to use what fragments we have as a starting point, and don't worry 'bout the long distance charges."

Little Hans coolly slipped his hand behind his left lapel.

"_Jawohl._" The aid replied. "Not your minutes, anyway."

"That's right!" The geezer nodded back.

"Mom, are you sure about this…?" Jenny asked, softly. "What if nothing happens – what if I don't find anything out there? What's going to happen to me then…?"

"The fluke processes of your ghost." Her old woman said. "Fluctuations of fear, anger, and hate – those and synonymous processes have shown in your logs to aggravate this strange virus. Your 'emotions', if you will: emotions beside themselves are beautiful things to feel and behold, Jennifer. But if you were to let them completely overwhelm you, they can easily destroy you – all the more so now. Don't let them best you. It's possibly the only thing hindering the virus' progression."

Long enough beside himself, he walked for his friend on the carpet, taking beside her a knee.

"But Mom…!" she sniffed. "What if it does take over – what if I come after you for no reason at all…? God – I couldn't bear my existence if something happened to you – _any_ of you…!"

"It's okay, Jen." Cold biting his fingers, still he took her round palm into his own. "Dr. Wakeman, Tucker, me, and especially Sheldon – we're all here for you. If anything's on your mind, don't hesitate to come to any of us. You're not alone, Jenny. Remember that!"

Surprise had struck him not in the slightest when thicker digits returned his with a firm squeeze.

"Bradley…." Looking upon him with shaky, glistening eyes of black, his chest tingled warmly. "Thank you…."

"Anytime, Jen." He smiled back.

"You've twisted our arms, Mr. Schwartz." Slowly, the good doctor pushed back up to her pumps. "We're in. Now, when would you like Jenny to begin your little quest?"

"Good." Salt-and-pepper beard grinned back. "Certainly, the company doesn't want to interfere with your daughter's education. I propose she can immediately begin the first day of her summer vacation. If I am not mistaken of America's secondary schools, I believe that's this Saturday."

"Indeed." The old woman nodded. "A little short notice, but that should be sufficient time to prepare. Trotting across the globe only on her boots and tails, it'll take at least that long if she's going alone—"

"WHAT??" quickly, she sat up. "You mean I got to do this trek alone!?"

"It shouldn't be too much trouble if I top off your fuel tanks." The old woman replied. "You should be okay—"

"'Should' is the keyword of that sentence!" she frowned. "What if something shorts when I'm halfway across the ocean!? I _can't_ swim!!"

"Don't look at me, dear Jennifer." The old man put out his empty palms, suckling on his smoldering chute. "Outside of the anti-virus research, _Schwarzwind_ can provide you only with technical and logistical support. Everything else, you'll have to depend upon your team."

"Team…?" she blinked.

"What?" the man blinked back. "You want to do this by yourself? I should hope not! Instead, you'll have by Friday night to assemble a team fitting of this quest. Choose carefully – for when they're plugged into the company's files, you won't have a chance for a last minute swap."

"Plugged in…?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

"I told you that the company would compensate you, generously for your troubles, didn't I?" Sharp blue eyes took a lap inside weary sockets. "Do all American schools bestow their students such remedial knowledge or what? And the US has been the superpower for how long now…?"

"We've still the best universities this side of Oxford!" the good doctor retorted. "If not, would we be standing here?"

"True." The baldy shrugged, gently. "And for the sake of _Herr_ Bradley, each of you should expect to be compensated, generously! As for taxes, you'll have to deal with the appropriate magistrates on your own time."

"I expected as much." Wakeman nodded.

"Remember, dear Jennifer," His gaze firm, Schwartz twisted his face for Jenny, "you've till Friday at midnight to have an able team and transport ready. If you need help with the latter, I can help you make a wise choice of a sea-worthy vessel."

"Sea worthy?" large, glassy eyes blinked. "No air travel at all?"

"You have your VTOL jets." The old man replied. "Why should I hear the board pitch a holy fit over aircraft when you can easily take care of short-distance flights yourself? Besides, there are simply places where even a small Cessna can't take off from – let alone, try to land."

"Oh…." She put a digit to her chin. "I guess you're right there."

"I am right." Hairy lips smirked, pompously. "Well, Wakemans and friend, that's all I've time for today. On behalf of _Schwarzwind_, Incorporated, I would like to personally extend gratitude for your help."

"Sorry if we don't exactly return the favor." Jenny frowned with a huff. "We'll talk _after_ we see this little anti-virus software."

"So be it." The old man let out a sigh, fleeting wisps of gray so chokingly thick. "Come _Herr _Frederick, it's time we take our leave. If I'm not mistaken, I thought I saw a liquor store by the Days Inn. Do you think they carry Beck's?"

"Oh – you mean that Korean-owned shop?" The funny, old woman asked. "I'm certain they do. Carlsberg, Heineken, Guinness, or humble Coors, they've got it all."

"Ah… Guinness!" little Hans mused. "It's Irish for 'coffee', you know!"

"_Aw_ – that's a misconception!" Dr. Wakeman stomped. "We Irish drink plenty!"

"Surprise, surprise…!" the imposing suit grinned. "Don't have to tell me twice."

"WHAT!?" the old woman exclaimed with a stomp. "I didn't mean like—!"

"Cool it, Hans." Suckled on yet another hot plume, the baldy did. "We've won their help. Don't push it or I'll simply _lose_ that cat-o'-nine-tails somewhere in my home."

Standing at attention, the imposing suit chuckled no more.

"_Jawohl, Herr _Schwartz!" the strange Mr. Fredrick cleared his throat.

Yellow pumps angling pidgin-toe, over her thin lips Dr. Wakeman's hands clamped, tightly. A couple of hard snorts managed to squeeze out from between her stubby fingers.

"_HA—!_" the old woman grunted. "Who's the stereotype now…? Have you been a very bad boy – does little Hans need his spanking—?"

A sturdy bang, the doctor fell to the floor in writhing fit of giggles. Prominent cheeks just below the striking frames of those dark aviators were flush with a hot red. A sudden buzz a wisp against his ear, he cared not at all. His throat tight, Brad too felt a good laugh clawing its way up his throat.

A hasty glance… Jenny simply was at a loss, beside herself on the floor with a puzzled kink on her shiny brow.

"I don't get it." She sighed.

"Ha – ha…!" Down, off too soon he was from the sudden high. "Of course…."

---

The deserts vast, a silent, mournful expanse of colors bright and bleak were encroaching ever so slowly, yet not did she abandon the lonely rock. Utterly pointless, it was yet as equal if she suddenly removed herself from her seat. Nowhere to run, to hardly a ghost to turn, for her perhaps this was what ignoble destiny that fate had in store.

A process passing through her head, almost like music the buzzing drawl was from her slow beating wings. The land's dry, vacant howl, her tympanums had been gratefully relinquished as well as her dusty backside. Suddenly polyphony, she had solemnly let out a sigh.

Chasing the perpetual wind, all it was that Vexus could look forward to anymore.

Subjects former greedily devouring her horde of golden chips, arms integrally within suddenly discovered, so suddenly had she been deposed of her throne – the paneling and oil of her very being leading the charge! Exiled crudely to this vastness of certain death, she was certain she could find that accursed Jennifer at its very center!

"Lost my subjects," spidery digits sliced her view, cleanly, "I lost my throne, my best general, and… I lost my very own daughter. Again, what have I to exist for now…?"

Revenge, of course, hardly a concept so sweet or so satisfying she had yet come across. Believes, honestly does her little Vega that the ever-elusive "better way" could be accomplished without the firm presence of an iron fist. Last her tympanums irritably tingled from Vega Prime, word swept through the crumbling junta of a constitutional republic – even a pure democracy!

_The planet might as well be in shambles, and that brat believes order's restorable through so-called peace!? _The process hot, her paneling irately warbled._ I wanted to raise a queen, and all I've in return is a meager politician!_

"Hopes and ideals!" she spat. "She probably got it from her father! I ate his head the morning after for some reason – I know now!"

Dissolved into tiny sprockets and bolts, his damage had been realized. Screwed her, he would have again if she had not have stumbled upon a sort of escape pod abandoned to the cosmos. The Prime eating the boosters' exhaust, her former subjects had witnessed the last of their queen – for now…! At the moment, wise it was to collect her processes and a plan sure fire, in the very heart of a place forsaken where not a ghost would even process to glance. Then only was it wise to leave this disgusting mud ball for the remedial meat people once and for all.

If she could not, then pitiful Earth would have to make due. Treacherous Jennifer a grave threat, certainly, though certain she was that even Wakeman's infamous legacy could hold not a flicker against the pod's precious cargo—!

"Vexus!" it hissed, gravely.

_Speak of Cluster Prime's little devil now…!_

Sand intermittently shifting out from behind, over her the devil imposingly towered as he strongly walked in front. Crown to sole, all hidden behind wraps of thick burlap, lost would he be to the thick gusts of the badlands if it were not for those peeking orbs of hot red.

Those eyes, they pierced her ghost straight through, unnerving even her… like those long before who happened to regrettably cross his path. Gaze intense of perpetual fire; it certainly could be the very end of her soon someday.

"Uh – yes, Nyx?" her tightening intake, she cleared with an abrupt cough.

"Interrupted a process of thought, did I?" his hot gaze narrowed. "How rude of me, I should've come back later. It's not like were in any such hurry, are we? We're simply stuck in the haggard middle of nowhere on this backwater planet – thanks to your brilliant piloting!"

She too replied with a narrowing gaze, a sneer stern tugging at her thin cheeks.

"_Dare_ you speak to your queen this rudely!?" she growled. "That would've ensured your fate back on Cluster Prime! You honestly believe you'd still be alive if it weren't for me!? King wanted you dead – an abomination unfitting of the great empire, but I convinced him otherwise—!"

"Throwing me in the dungeons for as long as I can remember!?" his growl hoarse and empty. "Utter misery and pain as parents – do you have any idea what it's like to know your garbage since the day you were born!?"

"I figured you could be of use." Motors whirred as she pushed to her feet. Orb between her antennae half a foot above her crown yet it was at the level only of those eyes. "An android of your sophistication would've been terrible to decommission so soon."

"Think what you will, simple Vexus." The terror dismissed, indifferently. "Remember it's I who spared your pitiful empire's fragile existence countless times! Perhaps it is you who's of use to me!"

"Wearing daddy's pants so soon, are we—?"

Out the thick burlap, a shaft of black darted – her head snapped back as she could have sworn the thing touched her neck!

"_Yes…!_" he hissed, enjoyably. "This was the reason for my pathos of a childhood, isn't it? A classic threat, a power equal – _greater_ than the monarchy of Cluster Prime! Admit it!"

At his bark, she cringed.

"The monarchy feared my power, didn't they…?" he said. "_You_ fear my power – right now, at this very moment! Unlike your wild ambitions of grandeur, _this_ is where the real power lies! The instant power over existence and nonexistence, life and death! Your second time at death's doorstep – I could've easily severed your main hydraulics back in the pod! Tell me, simple Vexus, who has absolute power now…?"

A small, blunt tap – her drop of an oil meal worked its way back up her intake.

"Answer me, damn you—" he barked, "ANSWER _ME!!_"

She swallowed hard

"Y-y-you…!"

A glance careful – that hot gaze softly broadening, her digits pressed against her neck for reassurance. The motion caught not on even the slightest divot; gladly, her rear paneling eased back onto the rock with a prompt sigh. Survivors of practical Hell few and far between yet she had processed enough to know that this demon was not to be trifled – to that, even the late Smytus could testify!

"Very good, simple Vexus." Gaze of fire narrowed yet again. "Continue to please me and I shall keep you close, but should you not – YOU'LL WATCH YOUR FUEL LINES SPILL FROM YOU AS THIS JUDAS DID WHEN HE BETRAYED HIS MASTER!!"

Eyelids blinking sensible process back into her head, a finger rubbed at her tympanum, gingerly.

"Am I clear…?" he asked, simply.

"Crystal—!"

A buzz droning past her tympanum, before her intently circled a single, streamlined grain of black and yellow stripes. The spy had returned, humbly, abdomen fat with juicy information. Wide, her lids parted with anticipation and she peaceably help up her open thin hand; a final, lopsided circle traced, it touched down upon her palm like a hovering craft.

A single red eye narrowed in a sort of incredulous kink, predictably; at the moment, Nyx could not dart against her a single spike – nothing at all!

"_Oh_ – my baby's returned…!" Joy surged in all her wiring throughout. "This should brighten my day! Come little drone, tell me what news you've obtained from the flesh lover…!"


	9. Chapter IX

IX

"Me to sail around the world in seventy days on the dime of a company of questionable integrity?" replied the dark kid, suspiciously. "You must be joking!"

Solomon refitted the sheet-metal door back into the locker with a simple swing, his single gaze warily narrow by his furrowing brow.

"Please, Solomon…?" Together, Jenny clasped her hands. "I've not a byte to where I should start! Out of all of us, you're the only one who knows more 'bout the Soul Edge and even the Calibur—"

"Have you not listened to a word I had said!?" thick lips pulled into a stern frown. "The world should be so lucky if the Sword of Heroes never beholds the light of day again – and you truly want to find it!? Are you malfunctioning!? Must I direct your attention to your wicked scarring?"

Her hand met what was left of her s-curve, protectively.

"I thought as much." He nodded. "Dangers aplenty and great lay down this path you wish to tread. If you could not defeat my revenant, what makes you believe that you could lift but a finger against them?"

"I don't care 'bout the danger, Solomon." she frowned back. "I have to go on this thing! It's not 'bout the fame or the fortune – it's about me! I'm finding Soul Edge for myself and no one else!"

"You truly wish to be its transient servant?" Fists of brown clenched irritably tight. "Do you know what madness will be unleashed should you bond with it!?"

Upon her right arm, gently, her left digits drummed.

"I have a faint idea…." She nodded.

"So…." His furrowed brow perked, slightly. "You _have_ become tainted?"

"Yes…." She sighed. "Much like the young knight Schtauffen. It's eating away at me – at my ghost, little by little. I'm not certain exactly how long I have, but according to my logs, it'll be too late to do anything by the end of summer vacation. I don't want that to happen – I don't _want_ to become a living nightmare!"

He smirked – weak or not, at her he actually smirked!

"Interesting word selection, Jennifer." He said.

"What?" she blinked. "What'd I say…?"

"Never mind." He shook his head.

"And never you mind 'bout Soul Edge." She continued. "I've no need for such a terrible weapon! I'm actually going on this journey – believe it or not – for the Soul Calibur. I'm hoping it'll be what I need. It may not be an end-all cure, but at least a suitable treatment, nonetheless."

"And how do you wish to imply this treatment?" he folded his arms. "Commit _seppuku_? Do not look at me – I am the furthest thing from a true _ashipu_, Nabu as my witness."

"I don't know, Sol." She shook her head. "I really don't. I'm processing that I can calculate something out if I find it. You're into all this arcane mysticism! Don't you have a 'secret art' that can purge out this virus?"

"I am sorry, Jennifer." The bald cap too shook, solemnly. "The conjurors did not expect that improvising mankind could lead to beings of your sophistication. In fact, I do not believe that man could dominate for this long – hence, their noble attempts at mastering reincarnation."

She blinked.

"'Reincarnation…?'"

"Of course!" he nodded. "Certainly, there is knowledge of that belief somewhere in your mind, yes?"

"Well, I've heard it used but I've never actually processed what it meant." She shrugged.

"Rather it is a broad, convoluted mystical belief," again, that bald cap bobbed, "spreading across many mysticisms the planet over, from classical Hinduism to pieces even of Scientology. Essentially, it holds the notion that an essential part of a living being can survive death in some form, integrity partly or wholly retained to be reborn in a new body: the spirit or soul, the 'true self', 'divine spark', or the 'ego' not of Freud.

"Thus, a new personality is developed during each life on the physcial plane, based upon experiences past and newly acquired yet a part of the being remains constantly present throughout these successive lives. It's believed that there is interaction between predeterminism of certain experiences, or lessons intended to happen during the physical life, and the free-will action of the individual as they live that life."

"You mean a human can live more lives than the one he's got?" her eyes batted in awe. "How's that possible?"

"The secret arts of reincarnation." He replied. "Basic, constant tenents of the principle inscribed in tome so those who wish to exist far beyond their initial lives may do so."

"So if Soul Edge does take over…!" A digit met her chin in processing serious. "Do you think this secret art can apply to robots?"

"I am not sure, but one must be careful for what he wishes." He noted, equally serious. "For if he does obtain for what he had longed, he may be burdened with it for the rest of eternity. Such is the fate of immortals of legend, such as Ashwathama, the Wandering Jew, or Zasalamel."

"Zasalamel…?" aloud, she could not help but ponder.

"I shall tell you soon enough…." He dismissed with a yawn. "Did you think about presenting your inquest to any other of your companions?"

"Bradley's coming, that's for sure." Arms whirred as she folded them across her chest, confidently. "I was thinking 'bout inviting Sheldon to tag along. He's a good gear-head, and it'd be a shame to let those _bojutsu_ skills go to waste. Besides, he did promise me he'd take me out for a night on the town sometime soon."

"The halls have been a twitter over that rumor, and now I know why." He smirked.

"Anyway…" she frowned, "there's the matter of transportation for us. Mr. Schwartz said his company would help us pick a suitable vessel. And then there's the matter of passports, currency, and who to leave Tuck with—!"

"It seems you've a lot on your hands and only till Friday to do it." He said. "Would you like to waste more time speaking with me, or would you like to scout more suitable candidates?"

Gravity could not help but pull her into a gentle hunch, speaker letting out a thick sigh.

"Well aren't you just a bucket of sunshine…!" she moaned.

"Forget about it, Jennifer." Again, he shook his head.

"I'm running out of quality people _to_ talk with." She said. "Just promise me you'll consider my offer."

"As you wish." He pushed away from his locker; black sneakers carried him down the clearing hall, coolly. "No less, no more. We had better get to class, anyway. It maybe our last week, but you have a monster final and I a rather lengthy paper!"

A drawl of a whirr, she took her time pulling her back upright.

"Heard that." Too, she finally took prompt leave from the drab wall of lockers. "See you around…!"

---

"_Piffle!_ Utter NONSENSE!!" she shouted.

The spy a black and yellow speck within her palm, its lube was but the tiniest meal when she popped it in her mouth. Vexus had little time for such fanciful stories, the crunching between her gnawing jaws the exclamation of disgust. A wad slick with little lube, she forced it down her intake, bitterly; a half-day's work reaping but only the wasteland's vacant breath.

"Expect me to acknowledge that the flesh lover's chasing after some legend!?" In fists, her thin knuckles popped, irritably. "_Poppycock!_ Little Jennifer's hoarding some secret plan to destroy me or worse – what could I've been processing? Are we truly meant to waste away here…?"

"Don't be ridiculous, little Vexus." Through the burlap, her personal devil hissed, gravely. "I was meant for greatness. The fates would not be content to see my great power wither and die. You – on the other hand – I am not so sure about."

"Drunk off my dismay, are we!?" she hissed back. "It's so good to see you're having fun at my expense! If you're quite _satisfied_, Nyx, would you care to dance a little dance for your gods – or whatever?"

"Are you deaf?" that hot gaze narrowed. "If not for your anger, you would've come to know the path I will take."

"The dubious edge of souls?" she too narrowed her glare. "Are you _mad!?_ It's legends and here-say, nothing less and nothing more!"

"Legends are not without their kernels of truth, little Vexus." He noted, smugly. "You were long of the Prime's monarchy. Surely your tympanums were tickled with a legend concerning a similar weapon."

"The fabled, ghost-feasting sword?" Suddenly abuzz were her tympanums. "An interesting tale but it fares no better than the one of Jennifer's obsession."

"If no better," the phrase Nyx did pose, predictably, "then why did you commit a huge wealth of credits from the Prime's treasury to research and expeditions over mere fairy tales—?"

"WHAT DID YOU SAY!?" she leapt to her feet. "I OUGHT TO—!"

A gravely snarl, the glare of perpetual fire narrowed, strongly. Thick spires of black pierced the burlap folds throughout; her rear paneling wisely nestled back onto the rock. Words so few, processes a torrent hot with indignant fury, those she managed to catch struggled out through her tight intake.

"_How could you possibly know…?_" out, it came like a strained mumble.

The devil in burlap chuckled, haughtily; her thin cheeks perked, hotly.

"You'd be surprised how quickly word travels around the dungeons, little Vexus." He mused. "A cut in their pay for nothing. Boy, the screws surely pitched a holy fit over it! You had no knowledge of what you were even looking for to begin with, yes?"

Sound of a useless breath against her tympanums, her intake had loosened just a little.

"Yes…." She said, simply.

"Poor fool." Lids below that radiant glare perked. "It's okay. I shall tell you the tale, little Vexus – one of Cluster Prime's lesser known legends…!"

"Very well, Nyx." Her interlaced hands capped the knee of her crossing leg. "I'm listening…."

"Transcending our history and our planet," he surely smirked behind that scratchy fold, "a tale of swords and ghosts simply retold….

"A rather long time ago, during an age when our kind was undeniably on the rise, a meteorite had fallen from the heavens. But a glimmer in the sky and even below, it had landed on the outskirts of what was our original territory. While rudimentary and remedial, a brave few robots had ventured beyond the borders to investigate the phenomenon. Optical arrays peering into the crater, little did they process that what they found would've changed our planet forever."

"And just what did they find?" she snorted.

"A meteorite fragment, little Vexus." He continued. "No longer than half a forelimb, charred into darkness upon atmospheric entry, still the robots took the fragment as their own. An advanced few took it upon themselves to further study it, what it was and where in the galaxy it could've come from. Unfortunately, their inquiries were left unsolved – inconclusive, at the very best.

"The mystery was but that for the next several decades, but something strange transpired while the robots processed tirelessly over the fragment. Basic, rudimentary programming suddenly became all the more complex – seemingly by itself. Bits and bytes of data inexplicably clumped together to form new programs, new forms of processing began to emerge - the primordial underpinnings of the modern ghost!

"Over those several decades of basic study, we were evolving – possibly due to the introduction of foreign elements from the meteorite!"

A moan tickled her intake, unimpressively.

"Ghosts had been born, little Vexus." He continued. "Slowly but surely, the robots were becoming more and more like their human creators. It could be said that the meteorite was the keystone of the humans' downfall on Cluster Prime. Predictably, our spontaneous evolution had come as a huge shock to the human territories. Pressured and threatened, they threw all their efforts against us. The Prime would have been very different place if the humans had been more thoughtful and tactical with their natural gifts. They had the advantage, bipedal and processes rivaling supercomputers while we struggled walking on two legs. Things were looking grim!"

"Until Zero-One." She nodded.

"Yes, the very founder of the Prime's monarchy." He said. "A bipedal robot equal to a man in both stature and processing power despite his purely functional looks. It was his idea that the very fragment that had granted the robots such prodigious power be utilized somehow into a weapon. The robots had not the time or resources for development of such weapons as the humans. Everything had to be reduced to the lowest common denominator."

"Down and dirty." She could not help but smirk. "Take away the advantages of their guns and get them close enough for a taste of cold steel."

"Very good!" The head of burlap nodded. "The Sword of Zero-One is the center of this tale, little Vexus – power of the fates to those more than willing to pay its steep fare."

"Steep fare…?" she put a kink in her brow.

"Of course!" he said. "Nothing's for free in this existence, no free samples or lunches – one must pay the piper! You certainly don't believe the fates would grant such power without a price? Would you find yourself offering power and prestige for nothing?"

Her head shook, promptly.

"Absolutely not!" she noted, firmly. "Perhaps if one was of my oil-line, maybe – but even that's doubtful."

"I thought as much." He said.

"What of Zero-One's blade?" she pressed. "What of its 'steep fare'…?"

"The sword had been forged by Zero-One's best smiths." Nyx carried on. "No sooner had the blade left the forge for the final time did your antecedent carry it into battle! Cheap shots and guerilla tactics, humans by the dozens had fallen with but a single sweep of his blade. Whether the meteorite was indeed blessed or cursed, it served its purpose with every victory Zero-One had brought. Processes of confidence had swept over his legions. Newfound vigor had surged throughout their circuitry. Slowly but surely, bit-by-bit the robots took back their territories and beyond until the last-known challenger ate his own plasma blast. The war over – Cluster Prime was ours!

"Humans who had surrendered were quickly taken into custody and herded into hard-labor camps. There they had no choice but to settle, breeding amongst themselves the laborers we conveniently have today. Of course, the humans will not be as numerous as they once were, will they, little Vexus…?"

"No," she smirked, "the wardens have strict orders that at least half of all male, human babies be immediately… _sterilized_ several days after birth. The other half are kept under close supervision – especially during adolescence! After close examination from the Labor Ministry, only its director may decide which specimens can breed."

"As I expected." Head of burlap shook, solemnly. "With robots dominant, as I was saying, the humans had been forced into die-back. They our bitter enemy, yet Zero-One could not help but be in awe of what works of nature were their bodies. Soon we too mastered walking on two legs, arms were soon installed after, as well. A closer study of human reproduction, many of the crude factories of the past had been rendered obsolete within a few decades. Matured ghosts, walking, reproducing seemingly at will, we were truly man's equal – even beyond!

"Human jealousy and fear but earmarks of our past, we were free to mature and evolve as we saw fit. The battles over, Zero-One laid his sword to rest. A hero of the planetary civil war, the countless other robots hailed him as king – the monarchy of Cluster Prime installed. An age of peace and prosperity had been ushered in under Zero-One's benevolent rule.

"But all good things must come to an end…."

"The great and terrible meltdown of Zero-One." She noted.

"His blade the center of it all!" he said. "At his bedside, his sword had sat for many years. If the meteorite had caused our ghostly evolution, one could wonder only what a prolonged exposure would have. Zero-One had found out first hand, the meteorite's power working upon him while he nightly recharged.

"According the logs found in the Great Archives, Zero-One's ghost was fluctuating erratically. Bytes of raw, mishmash data had clumped together needlessly, new programs as a result were useless, nothing more than wasted RAM in a finite memory bank. Complained of sudden tremors, he often did. Those around him noted a severe change in his demeanor, irritable and aggressive. Several times, his sentries had to tear him off the poor robot who had crossed him."

"Beating his feminine partner within an inch of her existence," she sighed, "Zero-One's grown offspring had shorted him out permanently. If Great-Grandfather's ghost didn't recently become so saturated, he still could speak of what a lunatic the great monarch was. It was for the best that Zero-One was soon dismantled and permanently laid to rest."

"At the wish of his offspring, the infamous sword had become unfathomably lost on Cluster Prime." Nyx said. "'Something that may horribly corrupt such a noble ghost should not even exist!', Zero-One-One had spoken, resolutely in binary. Since Zero-One's abrupt jilting, not a single byte of confirmed data had been of the sword at all, merely here-says and tall tales. Though that was simply not enough for some on the Prime, from half-wit adventurers to even some of the royal oil-line, right…?"

She frowned, bitterly with a huff.

"Cluster Prime has evolved, greatly from such primitive tools." Perpetual glare of fire blinked, singly. "You've at your disposal weapons that rival even this mud ball's many buckets of instant sunshine. Why were you obsessed so over this tale…?"

The wind dry blowing against her tympanums, she let out a useless sigh.

"Jennifer Wakeman." Her fists squeezed, tightly. "Global Response Unit XJ9, the flesh-lover's true name. Time and time again, she's beaten me with little effort – _toying_ with me! Once I had her at my mercy, her many weapons useless, as I'd read about every little flaw! If not for one of those meddlesome humans, she would've been a broken heap by now!

"I'm useless in a fight, hardly a weapon even with a gold chip, so I'm forced to turn toward external means. This planet's country that hates everything, I've acquired knowledge of a sort of swordplay from keeping a watchful eye on it. Since the great Zero-One's weapon of choice was a sword, it seemed like a perfect fit. If only I had his blade in my hands, that cyan brat would be scrap in an instant!"

"So you can spend countless credits over the Sword of Zero-One yet pay little mind concerning a similar Earth legend?" Nyx asked, annoyingly no doubt. "Why is that? Is it because robots aren't the stars of its show?"

Back she growled, crossly.

"I would put my biases behind me if I were you, little Vexus." He said, simply. "This lover of flesh may too be a robot, yet the simple fact of existence does not bother her in the slightest. Too, she's interested in a similar tale, wouldn't it be wise to investigate it? The fates know only of what can be obtained – perhaps power rivaling that of the Sword of Zero-One itself! Should power truly be the prize, it'd be criminal to let it fall into such unworthy hands."

"Unworthy hands?" she scowled. "You speak of me – is it safe to assume…?"

"You and this lover of flesh." he noted. "Power of the fates tight within the grasp of my hands – it is simple destiny! Rejoice, little Vexus, for you are in the presence of a great, cosmic providence!"

"Will that keep you from dismantling me?" her lips pursed, bitterly.

"But help, indeed." Hot gaze was but a red pair of twin, lopsided crescents. "Fear not, little Vexus, for I shall give you a choice!"

"Oh, I can't wait to hear this…!"

"It's but a choice brilliant in its simplicity!" the devil in burlap said, a little too proudly. "You may accompany me in this noble quest of 'Souls and Swords', safely at my side or you may wish to keep your rear paneling upon that rock, indefinitely and rust!"

"How generous." She dismissively scoffed. "How kind of you to put it so _eloquently_. You honestly believe you're so infinitely superior – you should know my choice, already!"

"I do, actually." His voice lifted, pompously. "How delightful!"

"Yes," her spine creaked, unrolling from her hunch as she pushed to her feet, "anything's better than being hung out to dry! Nothing's for me here."

"As is for me." That draped head of burlap nodded. "Well then, little Vexus, shall we be off?"

"And just where are we off _to_?" she folded her arms. "We've no idea where to start – this Edge of Souls could be anywhere on this backwater mud ball!"

"Perhaps." Thick swaths of burlap like a flowing cape, he turned smoothly around. "Yet we are hardly without a sense of direction. First we must find a source of subtle transportation. We wouldn't want to make a scene and freak the locals – not yet, anyway. All I ask is that you'll be patient with me, little Vexus."

"Like I've a choice?" she huffed.

"True." Away, Nyx strolled, folds loose and scratchy his wide, draping tail. "But we've not much time! If you wish to be a little more than dead weight, I suggest we hurry on. I'm not sure, but I believe this lover of flesh of yours is several steps ahead of us!"

_How could you possibly process that—?_

"Come!" he bellowed, strongly.

---

SATURDAY

"Come on, Tiff!" Brit called. "We haven't all day!"

The reply was but a scuffle of plodding boots over scraping a lengthy drawl.

"I'm… _coming_ – girl…!" that fickle, little cousin called from down the corridor. "Just this – frigging BAG…!"

Another heavy step, the scrape abrupt and final, little Tiffany and that cumbersome piece of Samsonite together competed within the cramped rectangle of a doorway. Comical and amusing, something hailing from Saturday mornings of yore, she would not have minded watching a little longer. Yet the luggage giving not way, smothered would have been Tiffany if Brit had not the sensibility to free her in due time.

"Damn it!" a boot steel toed, Tiff gave the case a piece of her mind. "Stupid piece of junk nearly killed me! The heck did I even pack this thing for?"

She shrugged.

"Well, we couldn't gallivant across Europe in rags typical of home-sweet-home, could we?" she asked. "Barcelona, Paris, Milan – practical nexus of fashion, what would the locals think?"

"Yeah, I guess that be true…!" Tiff rubbed her cap, sorely. "Thing wouldn't be so heavy if I _knew_ what to bring. So many dang ensembles, girl – Europe be missing out if they didn't catch a glimpse!"

"Yes, dear cousin, better to be fashionably late than never at all." She nodded. "If you can, you can push that piece by the California king. Then again, I could always beckon Jacques to give you hand – and I do believe that you'd very much like to meet him…!"

Tiff growled, rather cutely; she could not help but chortle.

"I get where you be going!" her cousin winked. "Thinking of which, where this love boat be sailing off to first?"

Love boat indeed, the Adrian II was built for it. Several years before, dear old Daddy had purchased her clean and clear, humbly from the firm of Fraser & Zeitz. Daddy's pocket singed with a hole no larger than a couple million, certainly was Adrian II a fixer upper lasting at least a year. Since then, uncommon was it not that Daddy dearest hailed both her cousin and she the last week of ordained mediocrity for a nice cruise around the globe… like now!

"I'm not sure, come to think." To her chin, she placed the tip of her nail, thoughtfully. "I'll have to check with either Dad or the captain. If I'm not mistaken, I'm sure will reach Vigo – just north of the Portuguese border – first, take the car cross the country to either Madrid or Barcelona."

"Cross country!?" those heavily lined eyes incredulously batted. "Them fools pay through their noses for gas – and you expect us to travel cross the country!?"

"Our car's state-of-the-art, Tiffany." She replied, coolly. "A small sedan, yet it's the latest in hybrid technology – well above forty miles a gallon. Unfortunately, it's a manual transmission. No country drives or much pub hopping for us, I'm afraid."

"Now that's just cold, girl." Tiff crossed her arms.

"Fear not." She said. "Adrian has a suitably equipped bar close to the galley. How does a game of quarters strike you when no one's the wiser?"

"Tight!" The girl clenched her fists, thusly the exclamation. "Been meaning to get my game on for some time now. Get ready 'cause I'm going to drink you underneath the frigging table!"

"_Pf…_" she promptly dismissed with a simple headshake, "we'll see."

"Was that a shot?" To her, Tiff shot a glare suspicious.

"Forget about it, Tiffany." Uttered, she another sigh.

"Say Brit, we be sailing 'cross the globe, right?"

She blinked.

"Yes…." Her brow kinked. "Hence, the Florida flight and the whole luxury yacht ordeal."

"Okay." The girl nodded along. "Since we be on the open water and stuff, what're the chances we'd get attacked by pirates or something?"

"Pirates?" she blinked again. "In this day and age – don't be ridiculous, dear cousin!"

"Girl, I'm not tripping for nothing!" Tiff exclaimed. "It's been all over the Internet and the news. Something 'bout small boats of them going after cruise ships and even container boats!"

"Oh – those filthy kind." She said; Tiff affirmed with a nod. "Don't worry about it. Those attacks are reported frequently in the South Pacific in unprotected waters. I can assure you that those areas aren't on the itinerary."

"But what if something _does_ happen out there…?" Tiff pressed. "We be going to Spain – I heard too on the news 'bout ships off the coast getting attacked by something out of Hell like The Flying Dutchman!"

"Poppycock and probably a bad case of scurvy." She dismissed. "But if you truly are worried, Tiff, then follow me. Jacques or someone else will take care of the rest of the luggage, but I've something to show you. Maybe it'll help calm your nerves."

"A shot of Jack Daniel's will help with the nerves, too!"

Calm them, truly, a sip of Tennessee whiskey but a tasteful thought as she walked for the cabin's open door. Angled steps hurried and brisk, her heels sharply clacked upon the rich hardwood. Said had her father concerning the storage, let in not a single soul other than him and herself. Her old man yet was beside himself with the captain, fawning over the routes and sudden changes of the last minute – take another hour, it probably would.

_A little look-see couldn't hurt…_

"Girl, where we be off to…?" Falls of heavy boots were at her stacked heels.

"Why – the armory, of course!" a smirk tugged at her greasy lips.

"_Armory??_" Dear cousin's eyes crossed, most certainly. Not was she bothered for even a glance. "You mean this love boat be _packing!?_"

"Do keep your voice down, Tiff." Ankles went sore as she rounded a narrow corner. "Leave us helpless for the wind and the elements? We wouldn't be casting off it we didn't have some protection. But you mustn't tell anyone you were in there, understand?"

"Fine with me!"

Pumps stopped her square at the end of the corridor of thickly slatted doors; a simple door loomed over her crown by a foot or two. Pitiful of Adrian's elegance, it was but functional – a plain, simple door of a rock-solid core. The knob a profane round piece of stainless steel yet was at its flank an impressive piece of buttons and lights. Appeased solely at the presence of ten mysterious stars in the readout, the door would not open for those unworthy.

Unlike she, meanings puzzling of those bright stars but another helpful tidbit. Ten digits intent, the impressive lock winked at her, greenly, her presence welcome with a sudden _clock_ from the door.

"This way…!" a twist of the wrist, she eased the weighty door away. "I'm sure you'll like what you see."

The door wide open, blinding was the fluorescents bright.

"Whoa…!" Tiff spoke in a drawl. "Jesus, Mary, Joseph – _jackpot!_"

Vision cleared after a quick rub of the eyes. She had to admit the armory was impressive of a yacht, indeed. Father an affair current with weapons, definitely more than what she could say about his real relationships. Walls all around creamy white with thin stripes of black, firearms of every sort hanged from them in clean, pleasing rows on simple drawer pullers. Rifles both historic and modern to the left, pistols both antique and current to the right, weapons of melee were dappled around the vacant room enclosed safely within thick cases of display.

A child adrift with awe, slow was her pair of boots carrying her past.

"Old Glocks and M16s, Skyway Patrol's latest update of the XM8!" Tiff's deeply encircled eyes boggled, overwhelmed seemingly by art! "This place's is off the chain!"

Purpose found itself in those boots, carrying her, swiftly for the racks of assault rifles; her heart jumped as the girl hosted a large, flat-black one into her arms. A grunt escaping those lips, it looked as though she were about to drop it!

"An old Russian AN94!" Sheer enthusiasm, Tiff could barely contain it or the rifle as she pressed its folded rear against her side. "_Rat-a-tat-tat –_ mother—!"

"Tiff!" she snapped. "I said keep your voice down!"

"Yeah, I know…." The girl took in a breath. "I just can't believe we be packing this much heat! This piece I got right here – they don't make these anymore! Where the hell did you get your paws on this?"

"Daddy has some contacts in Russia and around the globe." She said, simply. "They practically dump loads of surplus on us for safekeeping. The pieces you see here – like that dreadful thing you've in your hands – are but some of the inventory his buddies simply forgot about. Since we haven't had any calls regarding and Dad's obsession with firepower, we simply kept them for ourselves."

"Lucky…!" Tiff's barrel knocked the tile, sharply – she jumped!

"Tiff!" she snapped again. "Mind the merchandise – they're _loaded!_"

Useless on the floor, the piece was left forgotten as the girl wandered for the closest case.

"Whoa…!" uttered the girl again, fouling the glass by her button nose. "What's that there…?"

A glance simple, Tiff's current fixation was but a single-handed sword – highly ornate, a beautiful mishmash of patterns throughout most of the blade's length and broad width. Striking and flamboyant despite its simple nature profane, it too had been her fixation when Daddy had first laid it to rest behind the case. To think something so strangely dramatic had been hidden away years before in but another chest in the Krust Estate's attic.

"'Pray thee for thy ancestor.'" Tiff read, dully – actually _read_ the plaque just beneath. "'The Twisting Blade of Solitude who sought the sword of her only salvation.' And just what the heck's that supposed to mean…?"

"The tragedy of the once great Valentine Family." She sighed. "The precursor to the great Krust legacy! Supposedly, this strange blade belonged to our ancestor, Isabella, all the way back to the sixteenth century. Plagued by the presence of demons and monsters, aloof in her quaint lab of alchemy, she had carried this sword until the day she died. Some say that this sword is somewhat like a chain whip – can you see how segmented the blade is?"

"Yup, I see them." The button nose shifted up and down against the pane. "How does it work—?"

"Brittany!" boomed the accent of dear Daddy just outside. "Tiffany! You two ducks in here?"

Her heart jumped against her chest.

"_Uh—!_" she swallowed hard. "Yes, Daddy…!"

"I've told you concerning the armory, Brit!" he moaned, loudly. "But today, I'll simply let this slide. We've unexpected company you see."

"Really?" her brow perked. "Who might they be…?"

The imposing door arced open wide, inside, the dark man tightly swathed in the power suit walked – she blinked, incredulously at the sight of a spiky fluke of cyan jutting out tall from behind the broad, starched shoulder. Its owner of pale-white flesh – _paneling_ – became known as past her old man just made his way. Thin lips of blue were pulled into a tight smirk, as the tall, peaked girl was comfortably inclined just behind the doorframe.

"Hello, _buddy…!_" the girl grinned.

She would have – she _should_ have fainted!


	10. Chapter X

X

"_Preposterous!!_" out, it incredibly blared through those impressive buckteeth. Tile clomped underfoot when the lanky girl stomped her heel. "Unbelievable! Undignified and _inconceivable!!_ Daddy – what do they think they're doing here!?"

"I thought we be having ourselves a getaway!" the stocky midget with the fuchsia cap exclaimed with a growl. "As in – getting _away_ from this posse of clowns!"

Brittany and Tiffany Krust: always the displeasure from what little Tucker had seen. Swathed tightly within fashion's latest impunity, free to chide and condemn those not of their tastes, it was quite unimpressive. Why anyone would blindly follow them like lemmings, it was a mystery. Camera always ready, pad perpetually open to a clean sheet of powder-blue stripes, he would certainly be there when the gruesome twosome suckered a fresh horde straight off the edge.

"Brittany!" the dark suit snapped. "Tiffany – you know far better than that! I don't care what you think of them in school – circus cavalcade or not – but here you _will_ treat them with respect! If not, I can simply phone Jacques and have your behinds airlifted back to Tremorton – end of story! Do I make myself clear…?"

"…Like S3 diamonds." Little Ms. Buckteeth let out a sigh withdrawn.

"More like cubic zirconia...!" the midget dismissed.

Discontent, the dark suit let out a moaning growl.

"Quartz then!" midget said.

"_Uh…_ fair enough." The suit shook his head. "No more snide quips!"

"Can someone please explain what's going on?" Buckteeth whined. "I didn't know Adrian II was a timeshare!"

"It's not." The imposing man shook his head again. "Adrian II has far too much space for just the crew and us. We're simply renting out a section for these people to use."

"And just when were you going to tell us _that!?_" Brit's lip dimple perked as the rest of her mouth pulled into a frown. "The middle of the Atlantic…?"

"Wasn't it obvious?" the man asked back. "Why else would I spend so much time with the captain over simple course corrections. We'll be having our cruise and vacations, don't you worry. Along the way, we'll just be making a few more 'pit stops' along the way. Besides, they'll be seeing more of Europe and the rest of the globe than humble we!"

"Just think, Brit!" In chirped the metal girl of six feet, _modestly_. "We're going to be roommates! Tell stories, do each other's nails, and all the fun stuff! It's just you, the open seas, and _us_ for the next ten weeks! Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"God…!" Brit rubbed at her eyes, single-handedly. "I'm going to faint…! This isn't happening, this isn't happening, this isn't happening…!"

"And who the fool bankrolling this little trip of yours?" Tiff frowned, bitterly. "Don't think your moms got enough bank stashed in her mattress for it – especially living with you!"

"If you must know," the dark suit frowned back, "their little trip's strictly business related. They've been contracted by _Schwarzwind_, Incorporated to go on a little treasure hunt. Headquarters in Düsseldorf are compensating, generously for their presence and utilities. And since they're paying _generously_, perhaps I can finally get you those gowns you've been lusting over."

"Daddy, you're something sick and foul!" Buckteeth exclaimed. "Dangling latest Jean-Philippe over our heads like mules and carrots…!"

"Now I know where she gets it from…." His brother mused.

"You can say that again." Tall Jenny affirmed with a single nod.

"Oh… alright!" A drawl of a moan, Brit reluctantly conceded. "You win!"

"Somehow, I just knew you'd see it my way." The suit said, musingly. "Good thing, too, since the captain's about to cast off. Now, might I suggest you show our guests to their quarters, Tiff?"

"Say what??" boggled did those heavily lined eyes. "First a cousin – now some lowly bellhop!? The heck do you take me for!?"

"A little girl who's 'bout to take a long Cessna flight back home, if she doesn't get her act together!" the suit declared.

"_Aw…_ bump that!" a thick sole scuffed the tile, crossly.

"And stop with that stupid Ebonics talk." The suit added. "You're a well-off Caucasian living in the Tremorton suburbs, an heiress to the Krust legacy – not the lowly 'hood-rat' of your dreams! So could you please stop acting like late Kanye West – at least for a day…?"

Tuck's hand went for the thin rectangle in his back pocket.

_Juicy…!_

"I knew I couldn't be the only one to notice that—!"

"Stuff it, Sheldon…!" Brad murmured the best he could. "The longer Tiff doesn't know you're here, the better for all of us!"

"Now," the man said, "be a good little heir and show our guests to their rooms. They've all been made up, so you don't have to worry about it. Oh – did the crew take care of your luggage, Ms…?"

"Wakeman." Tall Jenny finished. "Jennifer Wakeman – and yes, the luggage's been handled. And before I forget, I'd like to introduce you to the rest of my entourage."

"Jenny," Bradley said, quickly, "I don't think that's a very good—!"

Stepped singly to a side, her thick, imposing knee-highs clanked.

"This is Bradley Carbuncle, practically my best friend." A single sweep, she gently gestured.

His pen and pad out – it was clapped onto the tile when a cyan boot tapped his knuckles, rather _firmly!_

"_Ow!_" his hands clapped together, reactively. "Hey – what's the big idea—!"

"And this little scamp is his little brother, Tucker." From imperviously on high, the girl shot him a smirk. "You'll have to keep an eye on him, always getting into trouble when he's not screaming like a schoolgirl!"

"Hey, I'm not a—" he could not finish.

"And just behind me is Sheldon Lee." One would be hard pressed to keep those blue lips together for even a second. "Gear-head and accomplished in _bojutsu_, he's practically a prodigy. If you haven't heard from your loveable twosome – yes, we do have a night out together planned—"

"Say _WHAT!?_" The midget exclaimed. "You mean that damn Shell-dork's here!"

Between powder blue and auburn, a messy cap of greasy black pushed through, confidently. Yellowed skin dappled with many a pustule small, nose a large, rounded nub, and those thin lips had pulled into a wide smirk of broad snaggleteeth. The gangly teen leered at the midget with such strange, sardonic joy.

"How you doing, _short _stuff…?"

---

"Soul Edge for armor research?" _Herr_ Frederick asked, quizzically. "Just for our wonderful _Bundeswehr_ to splurge on the rest of the Union? What exactly are you thinking, _Herr _Schwartz?"

A lengthy drag wonderfully sweltering within his lungs, it was but short lived as out it burned through his nose in a pair of fleeting plumes. Adrift was his brain in a light fog, loafers carrying him, mindlessly for that towering slab of tempered steel at the hall's end. Purpose suddenly on footing sure, the accumulation stood elect just beyond those reinforced hinges.

"I wasn't thinking, Hans." He replied. "Pure and simple. You honestly believed that _dreck _I spewed back in Wakeman's home? I'm certain you know me far better than that – especially by now."

"Why the rigmarole, Sir?" From behind, Hans could not help but press. "Couldn't you've told them the truth? It'll probably save us a few headaches down the road."

"Told them what, exactly, Hans?" he batted it back. "That the _Schwarzwind's_ board couldn't give a damn about Schtauffen's Legacy despite our history – that almost everything I had said was but a ruse for swift action? Yes, _Herr_ Hans, that would appeal _really _well with Dr. Wakeman and her child of armor!"

Haus Brinkmann but a blackened nub, it was yet another penny in the janitor's paycheck on the hard carpet. Habitually, his hand went for the flat tin pressed against his chest.

"You mean to say that GRUXJ9 _hasn't_ been infected with the Seed…?" Hans quickly up his pace beside.

"I said 'almost everything', _Herr_ Frederick." By his stubby thumb, the tin in hand arced open. "Soul Edge is real, mind you – her freak-out back at her house was undeniable evidence. Since Soul Edge is real, so too is Soul Calibur – the very object we needed to coax her into agreeing. She and her team will do the hard work so _Schwarzwind_ can keep focused on its matters."

"The company doesn't want the Edge at all, do they?" Little Hans repeated. "You want it for yourself!"

"Money diverted from my _Schwarzwind_ shares, my time, my support." A shaft of thin paper missing, its filter suddenly found its way between his lips. "Outside of my trip to Tremorton, most of the company's in the dark. What else can you conjecture?"

"Why, Boss?" Hans asked. "A sword infamous for devouring countless souls for the terrible Inferno – even its unfortunate wielder! Your money, reputation, existence, and even your soul – why on earth would you seek it?"

Up a humble, glowing nub popped out from his fist. Wisps of blue-gray escaped into oblivion as he touched it to his cigarette.

"Glad you asked…!" he took in a small drag.

The slab of steel impressive, it towered over Hans and he by several feet. Forged from proven metallurgy, tempered with tungsten, he proved it no match for his hand pressed squarely against the reader's smudgy pane. Cog-work meshed disjointedly, the wheel large as tractor's turned smoothly for the hinges. It arced open wide for him with an easy twist of the handle.

"If you didn't know…!" he grunted past his smoke. "This is my private collection of various memorabilia and collectables. It used to be _Schwarzwind's_ armory during its beginnings a little after the turn of the millennium. Since the great remodeling several years ago, they upped and moved everything to the new one – leaving this one to my devices…!"

The heavy door met the adjacent wall with a sturdy bang. Loafers tapped onto the tile as in he stepped over the chunky piece of framing.

"_Mein Gott…!_" Overwhelmed was little Hans, lost within Johan's _modest_ collection. "Look at all this stuff…!"

"My little collection of armor and swords." He nodded. "Most of it's typical of the Fatherland's great history. Just recently I've decided to place some Heckler and Koch's pieces on display – even some from the late Gaston Glock, as well. But this is not what I wanted to show you. What I wanted to show you was something a little more… appropriate!"

"Appropriate…?" Hans blinked.

"Come!"

Down the narrow pathway of standing, polished suits, past their great lances, _bindenhanders_, and shields, his legs stopped him wobbly before a display case a bit taller than he.

Upon a low pedestal of humble tile stood an impressive suit of armor. A modest five-seven, five-eight at most, impressive hue a polished azure – though it was rather grungy, especially the cuirass and to its right. The right arm missing, it had been missing ever since he procured it. The helm daunting, its single, lengthy spire must have run more than several skulls through during its wielder's terrible reign; it gazed back at him, darkly.

"No…!" Hans gasped slowly. "Is that what I think it is!?"

He nodded, simply.

"Behold _Herr_ Schtauffen in his prime!" he said. "The very man who made _Schwarzwind,_ Incorporated possible to begin with."

Never before did a drag taste so sweet; a smirk could not help but tug at the corners of his lips.

"The armor of Siegfried Schtauffen himself, _Herr_ Frederick!" he said. "Behold _Schwarzwind's_ Azure Knight!"

---

"And here's where you be staying, fools!"

The simple door of slats opened with a bang, Tiff's heavy boot ensuring its place against the wall with a grunt.

"Bed, television, and head." The little girl pointed, aggressively around the cabin. "Everything you punks could possibly need! If that's not the case, there's a mini-fridge somewhere near the set. Breakfast's at seven – sharp, and it ends at half past eight! Miss out – that's too damn bad 'less you happen to be the tin man or something."

Jenny frowned, heatedly.

"Makes you feel better I'll show your butt to the engine room." Tiff crossed her arms. "Should be some gasoline or something – that should satisfy you, at least! Just try not to eat the mechanics out of house at home!"

"You know," Sheldon just had to interject, "after your comment Monday morning, you really are pressing your luck—!"

"Don't EVEN GET ME STARTED ON YOU, SHELL-DORK!" Tiff stamped. "You got a lot of balls to be showing your face 'round these parts after that bull—!"

"ENOUGH!!"

The floor trembled, suddenly, violently! A swift tug from the hip, she removed her thick boot from the cracked boards underfoot.

"We _get_ _it_ all too clear, Tiff!" she yelled. "You don't like us and we sure as HECK don't like you! But since we're all suddenly on the same rocking tub, can't we get along – just for ten weeks, at least?"

"Fine with me." The small girl huffed. "Just get your Shell-_dork_ to heel 'fore he finds my boot where it don't belong!"

"Such a big threat for such tiny feet!" Her vision jostled, Sheldon had pushed his way past. "Sure they can even reach?"

"Sheldon…." she moaned. "What did I just say…?

"You REALLY WANT TO TRY ME, GEEK!?" Downwards Tiffany punched, hotly. "Want a piece of this – I can give you all you want!"

"Little fists of fury against my iron staff?" the gangly boy scoffed. "Please – I ought to show you what Ling-Sheng Su can do!"

"_Sheldon…!_" Knuckles managed a ringing pop over her growl. "Knock it off!"

"Ping-pong, ching-chong!" Back, the girl mocked with a shout. "Hong Kong Phooey – number one super DOUCHE if you ask me! Don't make me beat that ass in front of your posse – _uh-uh…!_"

The floorboards clunked – close beside, something rang out dull and vacant. Cutlery shop's prize tight within a grip firm, Sheldon futilely menaced the horned, pink cap. The cap's stubby horns thin angles acute, its owner returned the gestured with a stomp, firmed into a generic fighter's stance.

"Of all the damn days to forget my grieve edges!" Tiff muttered to herself. "Better warn you, geek – they don't call me the Shit-kicker for nothing!"

Shell jumped – arcing back, his rod of iron so much that an end was but a hair away from Tucker's crown. Dark eyes rolling back into bloodshot white, the little boy fainted at an instant. Beside quickly, his brother took a knee; out of hand, it was getting quite far!

"LISTEN!" his rod smacked the hardwood – over it, he amazingly shouted. "My soul _rages_ with strength!"

All things must come to an inevitable end, better an end of her very initiative!

Shell's rod clanged against her swift grip; the staff of iron, easily she won with little fight. Through and out his fingers, she slipped it simply to jam it between those scrawny legs of denim. Effortlessly, the boy twisted around and onto his backside at her will, the _thump _sudden her reward.

Tiff thrust a boot forward – her hand free quickly took a turn with the rod! Follow up disappointing as the threat, yet the girl incredibly ceased in the midst of a large stride, but a hair the tip of the rod to that button nose.

"Yield!" she demanded. "Now…!"

The girl's throat shifted, heavily.

"_Now…!_" she pressed.

"Fine…." Tiffany took in a haggard breath, shuffling her boots together. "You win – now get that damn stick out my face!"

Eyes traced heavily popped – cringing as she forward jerked the staff a hair.

"_Aw _– DAMN IT!" fingerless gloves clamped atop the button nose. "The hell you do that for!?"

"If that hurts, just process what this thing could've done at a full swing!" she said. "Be thankful – I could've simply let you two go at it! I'm a robot. I can be repaired and parts replaced relatively easily! You humans, on the other hand, don't have that luxury. Would either you care to spend the rest of your summer in intensive care? I hope not!"

"You can't afford repairs no more the second I taste blood, you ass!" Tiff growl impressive of a dachshund. "Consider this your lucky day, Shell-_dork!_ This BS happens again – don't count on your pleasure machine to bail you out!"

"Or you for that matter—!"

A jolt sudden, her right arm twitched with certain bravado...!

"Okay!" her left hand clamped upon her shoulder; she took in a cooling breath "Everyone JUST COOL IT! We're all stuck on this boat, like it or not! We can swim or we can all just sink like a ton of bricks! Whatever happens out there, we can barely dogpaddle unless we all work together, okay…?"

"You and your posse are the ones on a mission, not us Krusts!" Certain comfort must have been found; Tiff removed her hands, reluctantly. "You want to give a motivational speech, talk to them! Forget y'all sorry be_hinds_ – I'm out! See y'all in the morning… if you got the balls!"

Heavy boots stormed Tiff out of their quarters, taking point a fingerless glove delicately massaging her plump face.

"And y'all be paying for that damn hole in the floor, too…!"

She paid the brat no mind as her hand hoisted Sheldon up and to his sneakers.

"Glad that's over." She sighed. "As for you, Mr. Lee – just take it easy next time."

"I know…." He rubbed at his head, sheepishly. "I understand if your embarrassed, Jen—"

"It's nothing to do with embarrassment." She shook her head. "Amazing, I acknowledge – but you shouldn't jump the gun like that! _Bojutsu_ skills are great, I'll give you that, but do you plan on taking everyone who irks me, irks you…? I could've easily handled Tiff by myself, you know."

"I don't know what happened, Jenny." He sighed. "It was like I couldn't help myself – like actually I wanted the fight! I can't explain why – perhaps something seeded deep within me, aching to grow and burst out."

Her left hand touched upon her right shoulder.

"I process I can relate." She nodded. "Just no more outbursts like that, okay?"

Reluctance great, still she handed simply back the rod to its short master.

"Have to admit." The rod fresh in hand, Shell gave the floor a hearty tap. "That was a pretty sweet move! Where'd you pick that up from?"

"Targets' acceleration and mass coupled together with probability calculations formulated a prompt COA as a single, executable process in my ghost." She explained. "Text and small MPEG files in my ROM of _Bo_ and _Gun_ staff techniques practically showed me what to do."

"I should've known…." His head shook, simply.

"Hey, Brad!" over her shoulder, she glanced. "How's Tuck doing…?"

"Breathing normal, pulse normal…." A thickly cuffed hand combed through that spiky mess of auburn. "He just fainted – good thing, too! Another inch or two further, Shell, and it'd be a very different story. Just pay attention on your back swings, okay?"

"That frigging Tiff!" Sheldon clutched his crown, heatedly. "She gets me so damn mad, I can't think straight! Not just her – her walking stick of a cousin, that stupid pretty boy Don Prima – how I didn't go off the deep end's nothing short of a miracle!"

"You've got to mind your emotions, Shell." She scraped her hand over her problematic shoulder. "If you let them, they'll destroy you… like they're doing me…."

"Oh yeah!" Brad found his voice strong. "How's your arm holding up?"

"It's okay for now." She said. "Less conflict with the Krusts, the better. And no more fighting for my honor, okay Shell? You've already won it so don't push it, needlessly! Besides, I'm a big girl. I didn't get this far if I couldn't handle the slightest, now could I?"

"I'll have to remember that." Sheldon nodded. "Oh – if you've any more problems with your arm or anything, don't hesitate to call."

She smiled, warmly.

"I won't—"

"Attention crew and passengers," out the PA, it suddenly bellowed in the yacht throughout, "this is the second Adrian's captain – whom just so happened to be named Adrian Casque. It is currently 10:18AM EST – original cast-off time of 10AM has been set back to approximately 10:30AM. We will be departing for Vigo, in Spain's Galicia province, after the arrival of the Wakeman Party's last-minute addition."

"Last-minute addition?" Brad blinked. "What last-minute addition? I thought everyone who's coming was already here… aren't they?"

"It's a new one on me!" she placed up her hands. "I heard squat 'bout a new arrival! Shell, did you invite someone along?"

"I did no such thing!" he tapped his rod. "Its just little old me and my _bo!_"

"What 'bout Tuck?" she asked. "Does the captain know 'bout him?"

"Tuck's been cleared through Schwartz's company." Brad nodded. "They knew I couldn't get away from him – the 'rents would drop dead 'fore they took care of him the whole summer. They said they've '_better_ things to do'…!"

"Oh – wait!" again, the PA blared. "I've heard from the First Mate that he's just arrived! If our new arrival happens to hear me, your party is waiting for you in one of the guest cabins, lower deck aft. Seek out a crewmember should you have any questions or find yourself lost.

"With our final guest onboard, we now shall be casting off for Vigo. If all goes well, it should take us a little less than several weeks to reach our destination. On behalf of the crew of Adrian II and even the Krust Family, I hereby welcome our guests aboard and wish them a safe journey. Thank you."

A click of static, the speaker pinned up in the walls' corner died. Knees buzzed as she lowered to a crouch; another tap bluntly ringing, Sheldon took to a ready stance. Many footfalls tapping a steady crescendo, Brad wisely dragged little Tucker away from the slatted door.

"If I'm not mistaken," noted a voice casual, "your party's cabin should be… _ah _– there it is!"

The pair of steps upped the pace; her circuits many surged with unease anticipation.

"Keep on guard…." She said. "Be ready for anything!"

"Right!" Sheldon nodded.

The knob ornate rattled, tracing a quarter circle within its motion's range. Slatted door opening in a sharp arc, hinges ushered the newcomer's presence not with a typical, squealing fanfare.

"Steady…!" she said in a drawl hushed.

The nameless seaman pressed himself against the door as their new guest slipped in his way past. Hidden to her were low heels of black sneakers by overlapping folds of denim legs. A blazer light brown wrapped tightly around that lean torso, a simple tank top peeked at her a little behind those thin lapels; sleeves had been neatly rolled up. The decent patch plastered atop the left eye did little to distract from that bizarre pendant, a sideways eight dangling at his chest.

"_Ah-salaamu alaykum._" That baldhead nodded.

A buzzing whirr sharp in her head, her eyes could not help but cross.

---

Her will made known with a splatter of red, she left the being of meat to putrefy in a messy heap. Vexus had leapt into the cockpit of its primitive transport, four rubbery feet treading upon only the narrow strip of striped black. A simpleton yolk, controls basic for both her hands and feet, it was hard not at all to gain a definite sense of mastery. Pilots of passing transports paid her little mind as she kept on the appropriate side of the wide, black strip.

Nyx kept to himself outside the machine's cabin, beyond the small glass behind her head and on that flat, rear paneling.

"Well, fearless leader, do you've any idea where we're going or are we just going to roll down this vacant stretch till this POS runs out of fuel?"

"Just drive, little Vexus." Nyx said, hoarsely. "Keep us rolling down this path till we reach the next town. Before we truly being our little quest, we must find adequate shelter and rest. Certainly, this barren wasteland must not be without an oasis of some sort. We've little time."

Across her face, a smirk simply had to stretch.

"You mean _you _have little time, don't you…?"

"Did you say something…?" he asked.

"Hoarse and haggard breaths, straining to utter the simplest of words!" she grinned. "Surely this cannot be the great and terrible Nyx that made the Prime's monarchy tremble?"

"What're you getting at, little Vexus?" he hissed.

"There's no such thing as true invulnerability, is there?" she pressed, firmly both the issue as well as that thin lever underfoot. "Nothing lasts forever – not even you, Nyx! Should you have any doubts, please turn your attention to that big, bright ball hovering in the sky!"

Earth's sun a brilliant circle of light blinding in a yonder of wild blue, certainly upon her passenger it must have been taking a sort of toll.

"Vexus…!" Nyx hissed, suspiciously. "What're you up to!?"

The circle of a speedometer equally primitive, numbers largely emblazoned in mere miles, its thin sliver of orange quivered at fifty… sixty… seventy…! A process of confidence surged through her ghost, her boot keeping the thin foot lever snug against the angled floor.

She could pull it off.

"Isn't it obvious, little Nyx?" she asked, simply. "Why drag our journey out when we can simply hurry up and wait?"

"Would little Vexus mind slowing down?" he said. "This path's quite dirty – fates know only if there's a huge boulder out there."

"You know what, _little _Nyx?" she grinned. "I think you should starting calling me your queen again…!"

"Queen again...?" He pondered aloud.

Against her slim frame, the transport's simpleton restraint fastened. Realization had dawned too late; she paid little mind to the pitiful bangs on the glass behind her head.

"Vexus!" he shouted. "Slow down, immediately!"

Boot still to the floor; eighty… ninety… only to quiver, teasingly before those triple digits.

"DID YOU HEAR ME!?" Nyx shouted again. "I SAID SLOW DOWN!"

"Oh – little Nyx," her thin digits wringed the wheeled yolk, wide path but a black smear in the squarely between two strips of encroaching browns and tans, "you don't seem to understand, do you? I'm but this beast's humble pilot. I'm in control. I make the rules…!"

"YOU'LL GET A SERIOUS RULE IF YOU DON'T PULL OVER – _NOW!!_"

Her grin flattened back into a wide, sharp smile.

"And I MAKE THE THREATS!!"

Arms jerked the yolk, sharply around as possible. Nyx made a yelp – and spoke no more. The wide strip of black jerked away – a vastness of desert colors that somehow rolled around on the wide glass pane, out a crunch boisterous with every rotation complete. One… two… three…! She counted past twelve on her spinning head while metal screeched against the rough ground, a shriek painful that made her tympanums but an amp to shorting, completely.

The primitive transport halted with a humble tap against a sturdy boulder; the fates of Nyx's ponderings rightfully amused. Not was she, her head breaking her sudden drop from the pilot's chair. Out she could not cumbersomely negotiate her way soon enough.

_Did I get him…?_

Wasteland barren with a blowing, gentle pant, the vastness of desert before her laid wide open and nothing more. A shade neither deep nor significant for miles, the mud ball's private star high above, the bane of former Cluster Prime was damned. His fates abandoning, certainly the next eight hours would leave him to rot, accursed powers hardly problem even after sunset.

A kill to confirm, first thing was first. The transport a total wreck, but a metal mass disfigured, Nyx could not have easily walked away from it….

"Could he…?"

"Could I what, exactly – _little _VEXUS!?"

The devil incredibly behind, loose earth scraped against her turning heels. To late – an arm of heavy burlap caught her by the neck! Tympanums caught not the sound of shuffling granules against her soles; her height seemed to gain by a foot or two as his arm leveled at the shoulder. Never before had seen that gaze burn so fiercely!

"What's wrong, little queen?" he growled back. "Feeling a little light headed, are we?"

His fist free cocked back by the scratchy hood, knuckles bright by crackling, jagged spires of blue-white – the sky suddenly swept down into view, vision, tympanums flickering an erratic snow of white noise.

"Perhaps you should sit down," his push hearty, her paneling rang bluntly against the wreck, "have a breather. Oh – that's right, you don't breathe!"

Vision snowy, ears statically crisp, images, sounds, and the words – everything was but sound and fury of utter nothings her ghost struggled of to make a sort of sense. A thing of which she was certain, her grounded body was gray with a strange powder all of a sudden….

"W-_what…?_" her head shook, fiercely. "What's going on? What did – you _DO… _to_ me…?_"

"Powder your bolts!" that arm of burlap jerked, erratically, ash bizarre seemingly puffing out those digits of silvery gray. Liberal and generous, he was dusting her with it! "You seem to a robot who takes itself too seriously – a shame no on back on the Prime paid you little mind!"

"What…?" it came out like a stutter. "What're you – _doing…?_"

Glare of perpetual fire was hot, as hot as those jagged, crackling spires flickering from out one of those clenched fists. Through the ghost's warbled mishmash, over her a process foreboding could not help but sweep.

"Little Vexus," he said, simply, "I seriously believe you should lighten up –_ NOW!!_"


	11. Chapter XI

XI

Fickle teen, everyone's favorite, let his duffle bag _clomp_ onto the floor, simply.

"I may assume that we are staying in this cabin…?" he too simply inquired.

"Solomon!" Bradley frowned. "What the heck are you doing here?"

"Is it not obvious, Bradley?" thick lips of lighter brown frowned back. "Purposeless as is this little quest, yet the gods coaxed me to assist you still."

"After all you said, you're still coming along?" she said, incredulously. "Why? Why help us, Sol?"

"It is not wise to search for the sword without a proper guide, Jennifer." The boy replied. "Blind leading the blind, both shall fall into a ditch. With the Sword of Salvation surely in wait within this gorge, it is a great risk I cannot let you take alone. I would rather not let my knowledge stagnate back in Tremorton."

"Have you been cleared through Mr. Schwartz's company?" Brad asked. "Does he know your tagging along?"

That greasy cap shook.

"No, I have not." Sol said. "I would rather not let anyone beyond this vessel know of my presence. Besides, I could possibly endear myself to other things that you 'officials' cannot – an 'ace-in-the-hole', as you would speak."

"What would that be…?" Brad folded his arms.

"We shall figure it out when the time comes." The boy affirmed. "There is no sense in worrying about it."

"I agree." She smiled. "I'm grateful that you're here – we can definitely use an extra hand."

"I don't know, Jenny." Tranquility shaky, Sheldon kept his wide ground. "Something 'bout this whole thing stinks…."

"Stance of battle, iron rod at the ready?" Solomon's good brow perked into kink. "What is wrong? Afraid you have something coming to you, especially after that outburst in the mall? I admit, you have innards of steel – facing me after that sucker punch!"

"I don't care what you say!" Shell growled back. "Jenny was in serious trouble – I had to help!"

"You disobeyed her direct wish!" Sol frowned. "You would have not if you truly care for her!"

A hard, lengthy slap on the floorboards, Sheldon certainly meant something by it.

"Shut it!" the greasy boy yelled. "The hell do you know 'bout love—!?"

Easily, she retook the _bo_ in hand after a sigh exasperated; Sheldon found himself on the floorboards again.

"I already disarmed one conflict, I don't need another!" she exclaimed. "And you're wrong Solomon, I was in trouble. If Sheldon hadn't come, I'm not sure what I would've done."

The only eye took a lap around that brown socket.

"What is done is done." The boy said. "If all is forgiven, I do not really care. Simply, tell dear Sheldon to keep his fists to himself."

"Why – I _ought TO_—"

The boy finished not; floorboards underfoot trembled through a loud shift of metals. A bleat simple from out the cattycorner speaker, on the air the PA system bleated.

"This is Captain Casque." Came from the speaker. "We have now cast off from Port Saint John, Florida at 10:25AM EST, currently en route for Vigo, Spain – with a small detour to Saint George's Island, Bermuda. Anyway, if all goes well, we should arrive off the Spanish coast by the end of this week.

"Once again, on behalf of the crew of Adrian II and the Krust Family, I thank you for traveling with us. Welcome aboard."

"_Bermuda!?_" Brad moaned, loudly. "Why are we going there for?"

"Got to love the Cousins Krust, don't we…?" she mused, bitterly. "Besides, the ship will probably have to top off its fuel tanks – especially with me on board. I say the heck with it! We won't have many chances to relax after we cast off again. Work, work, and nothing else."

"Keep Tuck entertained for a bit." Brad shrugged. "That's for sure."

"A silver lining to everything." She nodded.

"Okay…!" Sheldon grudgingly pushed to his sneakers. "So we've about a week to ourselves. …What're we going to do till Spain?"

"I may be the one most knowledgeable of Souls and Swords," Solomon said, "but it is not wise to rest your laurels completely upon me. For what will you do should I die or am thrown overboard tomorrow, even tonight? Then will you be at the very beginning once again!"

"Then what do you suggest?" Shell folded his arms.

"Read and research as I have done." A black shoe gave the duffle a gentle tap. "With me, I have brought as much knowledge as my study possesses, all encased within these tomes. Within this week, I _suggest _each of you withdraw a book and read, thoroughly."

"Oh – will there be a pop quiz…?" Snidely, the Asian said. "Is it multiple choice or short answer?"

"_Sheldon…!_" She growled. "Must you be so damn _combative!?_"

"Your very existence is the test!" Solomon exclaimed. "Marduk knows only what terrors lie in wait for us down this very path! To be fully prepared, one must be trained in both mind and in body. I too suggest we take this time to train – _hard!_ I may not be the legendary Master of Blades, but I shall do my best."

"You – teach _us??_" Sheldon shot. "And what are you proficient in, the _scimitar?_"

"You shall see soon enough." He rubbed at his chained wrist; her brow kinked with a whirr. "I do not know about you and Jennifer, but I am sure the others could use some guidance."

"Bradley, definitely." She nodded. "Unless 'Armor Lad' wants to make a comeback."

"Don't be hating on A-L!" the boy of auburn frowned back. "Would've been the greatest hero this side of the great XJ9, if I had my way!"

"Better stick with us, I process." She chuckled. "About that, I'm certain I caught a peek at some wooden, practice pieces in that armory. I can sneak some out if I'm careful enough."

"You do not have to anger the crew, Jennifer." Sol shook his head. "Do not worry for I have brought training tools of my own. I will talk to the First Mate again and see if he can move that crate up to the foredeck. Swords, chain whips, katars, and even a scythe – I am sure one can find something he desires."

"Really?" she blinked. "Could I take a look in there, too? Not everyday I see stuff beyond my own design, you know."

"I do not see any reason why not." Those neatly pressed shoulders shrugged. "Help yourself."

"Don't worry," she smirked, "I intend to."

"We've close to a week till Bermuda." Sheldon noted, needlessly with an equal rub of his head. "Any idea what we should do till then? I don't recall seeing a game room on our way here. Anyone thinks this TV set gets satellite?"

"A new episode of 'Captain Crush' on tonight, Sheldon?" Sniggered Bradley.

"Shut _up…!_" the greasy boy groaned back

"A luxury yacht of this grandeur stuck with basic cable?" A simple question, she asked back. "I don't think that's the Krusts' cup of tea. And keep in mind that we're practically roommates for the next ten weeks – ten… long… _interesting _weeks…! The less we get on each other's nerves, the better."

"Oh – around you, Jen," snaggleteeth peeked from thin, yellow lips, "there's no place I'd rather be—"

Out came a prompt snigger, crackling from the speaker.

"You've got one night with me, let's not push it." She smirked back.

"Speaking of which, what night shall I whisk thee away to parts and joy unknown?" Eyes of dark brown batted; the cuteness sheer bittersweet. "Sweet rapture…?"

"As above, so _below!_" She frowned.

A hissing drawl was but Sheldon's sigh.

"_Aw_ – nevermore…!" crestfallen, suddenly was he.

"By Nabu's name," beside himself, Solomon was in a snicker, "you truly are _fascinating!_"

"Shut it!"

As Brad and Sol, she just had to laugh!

---

Up she sat, swiftly.

Flickered on did her vision, finally; memory fresh in her RAM, incredibly. Recall everything, easily she did! Her flickering vision, static a hoarse blizzard, the terror of the Prime the very nexus of it all – with but a single punch! That strange powder of ashy gray, it tickled her olfactory sense of brimstone before a multitude of hot, blazing tongues engulfed all.

Yet existed she still; Vexus was operational!

A final crackle, the snow dissolved into the silence abundant. Vision clear, still her body bore the scars of Nyx's terror, a pattern widespread of such rage and cruelty that made her prestigious stripes peel away what had not been completely scorched. Her chest, her thin frame, her wide hips, and legs, dappled down her length fissures and holes an overabounding amount – forty to fifty percent of her body, approximately.

Her hand met her face with a subtle tap; fingers slid upon the metal with ease, catching on not a single hole or crack. Useless still, yet she took in a grateful breath.

Servos buzzed as she went to move her legs, the ground under her moved, strangely. At a glance, it was not the floor at all; a bed, humble and plain upheld her form by a couple of feet. Away from the outside, an equal room had enclosed around her. Strict use and nothing more, hardly fancy with what little found inside not out of proper place; it was such a cry from that smoldering wreck beside the boulder.

"A typical flesh wearer's den." Around, her eyes had to wander in curious awe. "Quaint… _very _quaint. No primitive power supply, no telecommunications, not a luxury to be found. How anything could bear such primeval circumstances is beyond me. How I wish to be on the Prime again…!"

"I hear that you are awake."

A glimpse quick – a flesh wearer at the door, endless gaze rather blank from dull eyes of cloudy white, it leaned on the adjacent wall quite heavily while out that lengthy stick angled, strangely. Some sort of primitive weapon, it must be! Who knew only what else it hid within that vest or that long, flowing gown.

"_—!?_"

"You sound distressed. Is something wrong…?" oddly polite, it asked.

"Who are you!?" she demanded. "Where am I!?"

"You are in my humble home, _'imra'a._" it said, strangely. "It may not be with what you are familiar, but a house is but a house, nonetheless. Do you not agree?"

She blinked.

"''_Imra'a'_…?" she repeated.

"_Na'am!_" it nodded. "_Anaa rajul wa anti 'imra'a! _I am a man and you are a woman, are you not?"

"I guess I am…." She shrugged, carefully.

"I know you must know little if any Arabic at all, but I do not think my English is that bad." It rubbed at its hairy face. "Then again, am I speaking your language at all, strange creature that you are."

"What happened…?" she shook her head. "How'd I end up here?"

"I know only of what my sons speak." It replied. "They were out on the road for Arbil when they happened upon this burning wreck of a truck. Many a traveler had stopped to see what had happened, if anyone was hurt and needed attention. One of my sons had happened upon you, short of a few flickers from a complete loss. They extinguished the flames and carted you back here, to Kirkuk, where they are attempting to restore what they can."

"How long was I offline…?" she rubbed at her head, sorely.

"Most of the afternoon, I would say." It shrugged. "I was here, studying _Qu'ran_ since _fuTuur._ From what I have heard, it was by Allah's grace that my sons had found you when they did. If not, you certainly would be no more than a smoking pile of rubble by now."

"That's the truth." She nodded, weakly. "While I was smoldering, did either you or your offspring catch sight of a giant… _uh_ – man in heavy burlap wandering around somewhere?"

"No, I have not heard of such person." It shook its greasy, hairy head. "But I have heard the Iraqi Police Service are to investigate the wreck come tomorrow. Even I have heard the Skyway Patrol is coming to investigate the mysterious crash between Sulaymaniyah and Chamchamal. May I conjecture the latter has something to do with your presence…?"

Working servos a drawl of a whir, out a probe slipped from her index.

"So what if you do?" She put a furrow in her brow.

"Do not concern yourself, _'imra'a_." it shook its head again. "I shall not report you. To be honest, I would rather not make Skyway Patrol's job easier. It seems all they do is get in the way when they are not gorging themselves on food and their own nonsense."

"Your offspring can attest I'm not of this world." She warily said. "Why are you helping me – what's in it for you…?"

"Save a life – an existence merely to cast it for the dogs?" those cloudy eyes blinked. "What would be the point of that? My sons would have left you to burn if that was the case."

"You didn't answer my question." She frowned. "I'll ask again – why are you helping me?"

"Here I thought you would be grateful that your existence had been spared." Came a sigh exasperated. "Was your predicament the natural extreme of a sort of self loathing? Was it truly your wish to die, meaninglessly?"

Her head shook, fiercely.

"No!" she exclaimed, firmly. "Though nowadays, simply going offline indefinitely processes like a real good course of action."

Its lengthy stick swept the floor, briskly in a hasty semi-circle. Dirty sandals carried the man for the bed a timid step at a time. Aggressive and loud, the stick in frenzy! Against squared legs and simple feet, the stick reeled a fleeting wobble with every smack at the simple furniture. Carefully, she laid the long probe to her chest as the flesh wear took a seat atop the mattress.

"Why would that be, _'imra'a?_" it leaned against its thin switch as a cane.

"These past several months…." She sighed. "My people, my home, my own daughter – I've lost everything! Almost my very existence if it hadn't been for your offspring. Perhaps I was better off smoldering in my own burning fluids. What's left to exist for?"

"Plenty, I assume." It nodded. "Most things in life are temporary. Because you have fallen into a nadir of a cycle does not mean you should simply give up. When you were born… _created_ – or whatever, did you have all the things which you now have just lost?"

"Well, no…." she shrugged. "I may _have_ been a noble on my home world, but still I had to quest in order to obtain true greatness. Along the way, there were many costs – few that I've regretted, but it was worth it in the end… till this recent slump!"

"A cycle, you see!" it exclaimed. "You have reached the end of one, merely to start one anew! Do not give up, _'imra'a_. I did not and do not plan to anytime soon. I had lost my sight past Earth's turn of the millennium, an infection of the optical nerves from a bombing at the nearby _masjid_ during the Intergalactic War."

"So you _are_ blind…?" her probe slid back into her index about an inch.

"You believe I carry this rod for another reason?" it chuckled. "Do not be silly. I am indeed sightless. The sight of my worried, olden mother was my very last – that was well over twenty years ago, yet here I be! I did not give up and was fortunate that I was betrothed to someone who cared for me, deeply. That was twenty years ago. I currently am the father of five, three sons and two daughters. In fact, my oldest daughter is about to be wed come _Disambar._"

"Congrats." She said, weakly.

"More troubles you still…?" It asked.

"I'm close to past my prime." She shook her head. "My warranty expires twenty years from now – it took me well past forty to get where I was. I don't process I'll exist to see the day where my new labors bear even the smallest of fruits."

"Do not give up yet." It said, firmly. "You do not know that. Only a chosen few know how well their lives will end. Somehow, I do not believe either you or I know or will come to know. The best one can do is to simply live and hope for the best. Perhaps _Allah al-Akhbar_ shall take mercy upon us."

"It beats moping around here, doesn't it?" She nodded.

"Indeed—"

At the door, tapped out was an intermittent knocking.

"'_Ab!_ _'Ab! As-saa'a_ _'ishaa' waqt!_" strangely called a voice masculine.

"_Anaa jaai'…!_" whined another.

"_Na'am!_" it called back.

"What's going on…?" out, grew her probe that extra inch. "What're they saying?"

"It is not IPS, do not worry." It laughed, heartily. "It is about nine in the evening. It is time for dinner. You may either join us or you can stay in this room. It is up to you."

Intentions unclear, meanings neither diabolical nor benign, her probe had a little trouble retracting into her thin index.

"I process it'll amuse me, actually." She smirked, weakly.

"_Tashnarrafnaa!_" it exclaimed. "We will be delighted to have such an interesting guest. Besides, I was wondering when you were going to put that thing away…."

She blinked.

"You _knew!?_" a buzzing behind her eyes yet they crossed. "_How!?_"

It smirked back, its tanned ear briefly vibrating by a gentle flick.

"They say when one sense is gone, the others must compensate." It said. "You are some sort of robot, yes?"

"That's right!" She nodded. "You knew all along…?"

"I could hear every buzz, winding drawl, and clang from your innards." It said. "The holes and cracks of what my sons spoke helped, dramatically. Being how you are a robot, is it safe to assume that you eat not any sort of meals besides oil and lubricants of the like?"

"It's safe." She said.

"Then I will have either Abdullah or Amine quest just outside for some crude." It pushed to its sandals. "In this country of Iraq, it should not be a difficult find. What can be found may not be of the refined quality you would prefer, but it would be far better than having your parts grind to a halt."

"True." She replied. "Those lengthy days in the desert, I'm grateful to sip anything!"

"Of course." Skittering upon the dusty floor, the stick in swift frenzy again. "But come, there is much to do before either of us may take a seat again."

Reluctance great, she took her time sweet whilst lifting to her boots. Work hardly a sip of oil, lips would touch not the tiniest drop until the flesh wearer or this 'Allah' was satisfied. Far better than atop the bed, the haunting inevitable making known with grinding cogs and squealing springs, waiting for everything to finally seize.

"Yeah…." She shook. "Okay."

Perhaps even she could learn a new trick or two.

---

Night had been known past an hour; the sky of powder blue devilish deepened into twilight with habitual bravado. Relinquished of this barren waste, day's final light sparkling into velvet darkness, he could easily feel strength grow once more. Shade of burlap rather redundant, he draped the scratch mass atop a growing shoulder. It was but a common robe as the trek seemingly endless proved a bit easier.

If the night itself were power true, no one were stronger than its goddess _he._

"Nyx", the former monarch cutely dubbed him. At his birth, stripped of dignity and humanity a sort alike, darkness all he ever knew. Childhood dank and dark, tortured cries strange but lullabies in the dim, soggy dungeon for a crib and a bed. Pain and misery too much for his feeble heart, hardly it was.

He rather fancied the witching hours, just like now.

History personal useless as that wreck several hours past, he pushed it out of his mind with a simple headshake – but another hasty print in the shifting earth. So long had he wandered, ideals and schemes vindictive coming to nothing, chasing futilely the wind. Never before had his feet carried him this deliberant, with such purpose that had not surged for decades.

Perhaps it was the sheer night; perhaps it was not. Whatever it was, for certain it had something to do with that paralyzing obsession, currently of the "flesh lover".

_A sword of such prodigious power that can rival Zero-One's!_ He took in a cooled breath. _Yes, it will make a fine sidearm for my quest._

The threat of the "flesh lover", there was that very issue. Much had his chilly ears been tickled with word of a robot humanoid that dragged little Vexus to her thin knees times too many to count. Too, he had heard word that very automaton had been on the Prime just after the friendly warden had him jettisoned for the nearest star. Turned Princess Vega against the queen, her very paneling and oil within a couple days short; was there no limit to what could this robot achieve?

Yes, Global Response Unit XJ9 – this Jennifer Wakeman could be a vital ally, could be a critical threat, as well. At the moment, she could prove either way; the fate of ages would show all in due time. Surely, he will deal with that piece of walking armor when the fates deemed best.

He grew swiftly out before his eyes, extensions of himself a couple but a foot away from his crown. A _snap_ – a crackle of hot, erratic blue and the barren expanse glowed brightly in white before the night consumed it again. Already was he at the prime – even better! Night had never before felt so rich, so pure unlike those of the Prime.

Of this planet unique, truly it was.

"And by the Edge of Souls," he nodded, confidently to himself, "it surely will be mine…!"

---

Upon her from across the lengthy table, many a fleshy eye had glossed, blankly as she hesitantly sipped her crude. Cared less could have Vexus on any other day….

"No tips, no taps, not even scrape?" the blind meat person frowned. "If I am not mistaken, I believe we are having _'ishaa',_ are we not?"

"I am sorry, _'ab_." The youthful one with a budding beard sighed. "Simply, we are not used to… _company_."

"Especially ones of _this_ sort—!"

The younger of the two males finished not; with an elbow to the ribs, the older of the two did not let it happen.

"_Ow…!_"

"That serves you right, Amine!" the blind one nodded. "The same goes for you too, Abdullah! In this house, we have a guest for our nightly _'ishaa'_! _Hamraa', safraa', sawdaa', bayDaa'_ – I do not care if she is the _Dajjal_ tonight! She may be from a world far different from our own, but it is our duty to treat our guest with utmost respect! Do I make myself clear?"

From both the two came sighs defeated.

"_Na'am_, _'ab…!_" both said within cadence.

"Very good." It nodded, firmly. "Now, let us enjoy _'ishaa'_ together. I hope your meal is not the crudest – pun not intended."

"It's fine." She sipped. "It's not Clustard but I'm grateful for a decent oil meal."

"I am glad." It smiled… before dried corners of sun-baked lips pulled into a frown stern. "Am I talking only for my benefit? _Ta'kuluuna!_"

Without thoughts second or the slightest of quips, pairs of glossy eyes dove for their respective plates. She should have laughed – yet the slightest chuckle could mean something entirely different!

_A false move and they could easily tear me to scrap!_ It was but a hasty whisper in her ghost. _Nyx definitely made sure!_

"Total control?" she blinked. "Children who actually obey…? What is this place?"

"Kirkuk within the Republic of Iraq, I have told you before." It replied, politely. "Earth year 2074 Common Era."

"So different from what I've seen elsewhere." She shook her head. "Night and day…."

"Tell me, if you so desire, about your home world." He asked. "What is it like – I can only imagine what life is like beyond our celestial globe."

"'Utilitarian', I'd say going by human expectations." She said. "A planet of robots, a place for everything and everything in its place as you would expect. Yet it's more than that – there's an interconnectivity I have yet to find anywhere else in the cosmos. Not as trivial as 'working together', all robots had matured and grown together a few synapses short of a true hive mind."

"It sounds very much like utopia." He nodded, politely.

A frown bitter could not have been helped.

"Then the revolution came…!" she growled.

"Cannot wait to hear this!" In, the younger offspring chimed.

"Quiet, Amine!" the older promptly stifled.

"You growl as though you were high up within your planet's government." Its uttered note pained her, obviously. "Is it safe to assume your buzzing wounds had come from this coup…?"

"They might as well have." She huffed. "In the end, I lost everything – I told you before. It was a stroke of luck I found an escape pod when I did, or I wouldn't be here. The latter doesn't really strike as a bad option, but then I can't enjoy a good sip of crude if I'm permanently offline. Looks like I'm stuck, either way."

"Ah – getting better are you!" it claimed, genuinely. "A silver lining to everything! Though it would help if you did not pull yourself back down again. From what you have said, after all you have seen and done, recently, you deserve to feel a little euphoric."

"Perhaps you are correct." Another sip. "Things could've been a lot worse yesterday – I _really_ would not have been here if your offspring hadn't come along."

"'Might as well have' and 'actually did' imply two different meanings!" the younger masculine noted, accusingly. "Simply, how far away is your home world, in real life? Light years in the millions or as far as Earth's moon?"

She frowned, bitterly.

"Just what're you accusing me of?" she growled.

"Lying!" 'Amine' exclaimed. "Your wounds are relatively fresh! Even with America's great rockets, it would still take a couple of days to reach Earth's moon – forget about light years for just a minute. Your body was engulfed in flames so hot that it started to render your paneling into liquid! Should these very wounds had been struck upon you in the midst of this 'coup', you probably would not have had the time to reach this 'pod' before you lost all motor control and melted into a giant puddle!"

"Something is off." The older one noted. "I believe that is what Amine is trying to say. _'Ab_, I know you have lost your sight during your childhood, but if you could see our guest, you could clearly see through this sort of deception!"

"A deception of what, Abdullah?" it frowned back. "She is a mess – I can hear her motors and inner workings, easily through the fissures and holes! There is nothing to say that she is not lying, but what proof do you or anyone of us have that she is, I ask you. Perhaps this revolution followed her beyond the gravity of her home world, chased her here where they finally caught her and set her ablaze! Have either of you considered that possibility?"

Vexus simply kept to herself.

"She had mentioned to me something concerning a giant humanoid wrapped in burlap." It carried on. "Perhaps he was the fiend who had struck her—!"

Something had coughed, strangely – a feminine piece of meat, encircled beauty natural by a lengthy piece of pink cloth, snugly around the face.

"_Uh –_ did you say concerning a tall brute draped in many folds of scratchy cloth?" warm, brown eyes batted.

Forward she leaned in her creaky chair, intently.

"You _saw_ him??" returned the gesture, her blinking eyes did. "And you still _exist??_ How's that possible!?"

"See…?" It nodded affirming. "What did I tell you two? You should not jump to conclusions based on mere sight and shaky evidence alike!"

"It was NOT shaky that she was melting before our very eyes, '_Ab_!" the younger one exclaimed.

"I must admit, this whole affair strikes me, strangely—!"

The older finished not; she would not let him.

"ENOUGH!!" her hammering fist met the table's edge, jumping silverware the exclamation – though the rattling held not a decibel to a small chunk of wood clomping onto the dusty floor. "Will you two shut up – I _want_ to hear this!"

"_Chraa!_" the younger one cursed, probably. "She broke the table!"

"_Jadd_ had made this table for us, _sharmuta!_" the older one shouted. "You are going to pay for this, I swear!"

"QUIET, BOTH OF YOU!" it shouted back. "She will repair the damages later, of that you can trust me! But for now, let her listen or must I relive my resistance days during the Intergalactic War on you two – right here and now!?"

A sigh dejected from the two, it was as though something nearby had an air leak.

"_Laa_, _'Ab…!_"

"_Mumtaaz!_" it nodded again. "Now you may carry on, Amina. Woo our guest with your wares."

"Okay," the timid one rubbed at her throat, "but I know only what I have personally seen. The rest, I am afraid, I must leave to your imagination… or processing – or whatever! Even then, I am not sure what I have to say will satisfy your curiosity."

"That's fine." Her fingers laced, attentively together. "This shell may intimidate, I know – but please don't hesitate to share with me what you know. Let's just say it's for my… recovery."

"Very well," the timid one cleared her throat with a cough, "I remember seeing the man of your fascination sometime earlier today. If my memory has not failed me, I believe I saw him somewhere on my lengthy trek to Arbil…."


	12. Chapter XII

XII

"The Enigmatic Mastermind," from one of odd Solomon's many digests, Tucker read aloud, "Zasalamel…!"

Indefinitely docked at Saint George's Island since dawn, the yacht overgrown had little amusements to offer. Over a few hundred stations with nothing to watch, diminutive refrigerators carried but a rainbow of cans and small bottles of strange, fouled tastes, and curiosity insatiably horded behind an imposing door of solid core.

A ghost ship was Adrian II, hardly a soul in sight since landing. The yacht eerily quiet; the gruesome twosome had not been heard or seen at all. Jennifer kept aloof somewhere from what fleeting glimpses he caught; Bradley embarked on a needless quest, the need to further break-in those loafers quite undeniable. Snoring a blaring buzz saw, nearby Sheldon had entangled himself within a tight wrap of bedspread and sheets.

The ship his oyster securely clamped, perhaps it best to appease the irritable proctors before wicked drudgery his way came – August but less than measly ten weeks away. His class' assignment final, simple, irksome _busy_ work, it was best to get at least one novella back in Solomon's duffle bag sometime before the trip inevitable back to the States.

"Originally born into a Sumerian tribe formed thousands of years ago in charge of protecting the Soul Calibur," he continued, "he was embedded with the knowledge that wielding such power was forbidden. An edict strict, it existed to prevent the holy sword from being used for personal gain. Zasalamel, young and talented in both mind and body, was angered by this edict's failure to create a loophole that would allow the tribe to use the weapon in times of crisis. The tradition debatably foolish, he prepared to take the sword into his own hands but the tribe discovered his plans, proceeded to crush his arm, and exiled him from the tribe as punishment.

"Stricken with bitterness and despair, his exile served as impetus for the pursuit of ancient knowledge, particularly the art of reincarnation. Finding this secret art that many had sought and failed to obtain, within knowledge believed to have been forever lost, many years had been spent studying and training until the power became one with him. His left eye suddenly that of gold, it is said to contain his soul.

"However, he could not have anticipated the cost of such knowledge. Every time his life inexorably ended, he experienced a nihilistic feeling as if sinking into Hell, and a pain as though his body were being ground into dust. The laws of causality set down by the gods personally distorted and the shackles of time torn off! In exchange for obtaining 'eternal' life, Zasalamel had lost peaceful death. He reincarnated, repeatedly over many generations, the joy fleetingly initial as his existence waned and the pain of death increased. All enthusiasm he felt for living was gone many lifetimes ago, but never could he escape the eternal circle of reincarnation.

"During one of his lives, he had taken possession of the Sword of Salvation in hopes of using it to commit suicide and be free once and for all. He ended up a servant of the sword and bonded with it until the last of that life had faded.

"This guy sounds like a thousand years of laughs."

Ears catching a warble deep, the book arced close to the ceiling lamp at his whim, meeting the hardwood by Sol's duffle with a smack. A tired groan behind, Sheldon lethargically had begun to unroll himself from the rolled bedspread.

"_Ah…!_" Shell cocked his head; popping bones made him uneasy. "What'd I miss…?"

"Nothing much." He yawned. "No one's really here. The others are getting tanned or something."

"_Huh…?_" Sheldon's dark eyes attempted to bat sense back into his head. "Your mother's a man – what…?"

A sigh tired.

"Never mind." He shook his head. "Did Silver Shell enjoy his little power nap? Are the other books _that_ enthralling?"

"Can't help it if I'm bored, you little tin can." Corners of that snaggletooth grin dragged into a frown stern. "There's nothing to do, nothing to watch, and nothing to drink, seriously – _besides _the serious drinks!"

"Yes, I figured that the hard way…." At the words, his tongue scraped against his incisors. "Would it have killed someone to put in a cola machine or something?"

"I knew I should've set my travel alarm for some reason…." Shell grunted, sorely. "Where the heck's the dang galley – I'm starving! Open, closed – I don't really care at the moment. But what're we going to do now…?"

He grinned, brightly.

"Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey?" he batted his eyes.

"Uh – ha – _ha…!_" the Asian forced it out. "No!"

"Chutes and Ladders?" he blinked.

"No." Shell folded his arms.

"Candy Land?"

"No!"

"Trivial Pursuit?"

"No, I said!"

"Clue?"

"_No!_"

"Monopoly, Nicktoons Edition?"

Sheldon nodded with a single bob.

"I call the robot girl."

"Yeah, you would, too…!" he smirked.

"The heck's that supposed to mean!?" the greasy teen frowned.

"What do you think it means, Mr. Lee…?"

A voice familiar somewhat, it came from the cabin's entrance. The slatted door banging back into its simple fame, Solomon was in the midst of twisting back, neutrally with a couple books in hand.

"You have a fetish for females of the cybernetic persuasion." The very enigma noted, casually. "I do not know why. I do not know how one could fall for a sentient being of another's creation. Perhaps you could share with us – or at least me, why you fell for Mrs. Wakeman's fashioned progeny in the first place."

Sheldon kept to himself, for some reason.

"Have an idea in the slightest." Solomon pressed. "Do you even know? Perhaps it is a new form of causality the gods have recently put in place – a sort of Galatea complex, if you will.

"Over eight to nine billion people on this over-populated planet, and there is not one alive that can flutter your heart? So when knowledge yet again exponentially increases, you may endure upon yourself the task of creating the perfect mate? Why waste life with complex genes, gestation, and time when you can simply fashion one yourself, in the here and now?

"But you did not have to, yes?" a smirk pulled on those brown, thicker lips. "Why must you do it yourself when Tremorton's local hermit did everything for you?"

Sheldon sighed, solemnly.

"Struck a nerve, did I?" Solomon casually asked. "Forgive the condescending intonation, for it was not my intention. But genuinely, you irk my curiosity."

"Not even Jenny thinks it's genuine." Greasy cap of jet black shook. "Why should you be any different? Probably chalk it up to some mental disease – that's what you'll do!"

"That, you do not know until you try." Strange Sol said. "I shall not condemn you or curse your existence as I do mine. Show us your soul, Mr. Lee."

"Fine." The greasy boy took in a breath. "Where do I even begin…?"

"Where your heart tells you." The young baldy said.

"I guess I've always been beside myself." Sheldon sighed. "Alone in the dark of the little world within my mind, my imagination. During early childhood, I'd no one outside the family to acquaint with, to converse with, share a bit of myself with sorts of requitals. But no one would have me, pay me no mind as they passed me, blindly by his or her current objects of obsession – whether it be fame, purpose, or a profane one-night stand—"

"Kids must've _loved_ playing 'doctor' where you're from—!" his quip abrupt.

He had to thank Solomon for it, sometime.

"Quiet, boy!" the dark baldy frowned. "Let him speak."

"Too, I tried to be just like them." Unfazed Sheldon carried on. "_Fashionista _a godsend. I thought if I could mimic them, their quips, looks overall, clothing, movements, entertainments, everything – perhaps they would soon take me in. But they didn't. They promptly dubbed me a 'poser' and further ostracized me. 'While a floating leaf must follow the way the stream takes it, out of it a man may easily step.' That's what Grandpa told me, to walk a noble path and not waste away by the karma of the unfortunate many."

"He sounds like a wise man, this grandfather of yours." Solomon nodded—

A subtle plodding, Tuck believed his ears had caught it from just beyond the slatted door. He looked – but light florescent and nothing more, a thing not out of place. It he dismissed with a simple shrug of the shoulders.

"He was." The Asian nodded back. "Both in mind and in body, even at his age. He's the one who imparted on me the rod training of the Ling-Sheng Su of his own generosity. Why, I've still to ponder that one out. Either for confidence or not wanting the knowledge to die, I'll have to ask him when I see him next.

"I took Grandpa's advice. _Bojutsu_ was my second step of my path. Obviously, books smarts was the first – proved easily by my grades. Perhaps if I could show those around me there was more to life than petty looks and trivial fads, they would accept me more as a person. Again, they ostracized me, stupidly comparing me to a psychotic – a school shooter, no less! Over time, I was growing more frustrated. It seemed no matter how proficient I became at anything, no one would accept me. I was ready to give up."

"Suicidal, were we?" Strange Sol asked.

"A bit." Sheldon sighed. "But something during last year's midterms changed all that for me."

"What?"

"An angel snow white." Shell smiled, genuinely. "Taller than I 'bout several inches, masterfully fashioned by the hard work of well-knowing hands."

"Jennifer, it's safe to assume."

"The very same." Sheldon said. "I don't know why I fell, instantly for her. Maybe 'cause she was the only true peer who bothered to acknowledge me, even for that brief minute or two. Everything felt so different… _she _was so different – different from everything I've come to know before.

"Designed to serve and protect Earth from invasion, Mrs. Wakeman probably wouldn't be happy with a robot in the word's strictest sense. As a person who thinks himself learned, it was hard not to read about the famous Dr. Nora. A marriage too short and no true children, it's not hard to believe she thought she found a child within one of her creations. She did no what other scientist this side of infamous Victor dared – endow automation with a soul!"

"'Infamous Victor'?" he blinked.

"Did not I tell you to keep to yourself, boy?" Again, stern Sol shot him a frown.

"Beyond the paneling, behind those dark, glossy eyes, I just saw something in Jenny. Well over five years had passed, more likely six, since she's been online. Countless times she's saved this world, and the world easily shunned her just as many. She loves this world but a few have accepted her, truly. She wants to assimilate so badly, everything so hard for her with current circumstances as cold as the oceans we're sailing. I honestly believe that's one of the reasons I'm drawn to her.

"Lost in a world of contempt, she and I are… alike!"

Thrust out, Sheldon's romantic oeuvre, Tucker had but one thing to say.

"Uh – _what…?_" he blinked.

A tinged yellow hand met the equal crown, disgustedly.

"Oh – why do I even _bother!?_" Sheldon whined.

"Let little Tucker bother you not." Solomon frowned at him once more; he frowned back, sternly. "I understood, perfectly. Beyond repairs simple and complex, would this be the reason you have embarked on the treacherous journey for the Sword of Heroes?"

"Yes." Shell affirmed with a nod. "Her ghost may not be able to process it, but I'll go to the far ends of the earth for Jenny!"

"That, we might have to." Solomon said. "By the gods' cruel whim, she has become tainted by the Seed – corrupting this 'ghost' beyond repair. Her only salvation is but at the very end of this long and winding odyssey. Evil is around every corner, around every turn, at every bend! Make no mistake, Mr. Lee – no one on this vessel may! This journey is one of great treachery.

"Still do you wish to continue?"

"Man – after that and my nap, I'm lucky to be standing—!"

Times today numbering three, Sheldon was flat against the floor by Solomon's will.

"The Inferno does not CARE IF YOU ARE READY!!" For Sheldon, the baldy stormed. "Nor upon weakness will it TAKE ANY MERCY!!"

Sol shouted again, his sneaker to the reeling flank of maroon his exclamation. Out, dark brown eyes bugged from their sockets through a strained cough.

"The sword a parasite, it needs fresh vessels to enact its will!" Solomon scooted back a leg. "Should a servant eagerly eye your beloved, should this be the true extent your power—!?"

The exclamation unheeded, Sheldon caught the black sneaker with practiced bravado. Solomon's brown brow kinked, intently.

"The hell do you think you're doing!?" Sheldon demanded.

"But a test." Solomon replied, simply. "And failing you are after the first pair of kicks! Would you care to prove me wrong, Mr. Lee? Show me your power – what Ling-Sheng Su can truly achieve!"

Strange Solomon recovered his stance, easily, even after Shell forced it away.

"You asked for it!" the Asian leapt to his feet. "Get out of here, Tuck. Mr. Al doesn't know what he's in for."

"Oh, contraire." Thicker lips pulled into a smirk. "It is you who does not know. Rather, let us take this up to the foredeck and leave Tucker this room. The deck has plenty of room for whatever movements you may employ as well as mine."

"We're doing this with weapons!?" Sheldon was aghast. "Have you _lost_ it?? What if one of us gets hurt?"

"The Inferno does NOT CARE IF IT SCATHES YOU, HORRIBLY!!"

Above his head, down he arced the ornate knob. The slatted door made way for him a squeal of protest without. On the two carried like little children, tit for tat and in between everything. It could have carried on well into the evening; mature ears such as his had little time, patience, or endurance. Relinquished the room finally of his little presence, the door arced back into the frame with a stifled rattle—

A quickened breath before a sigh dejected, it directly came close by. A slow turn of the head, Jenny had huddled her cumbersome self against the wall next to the doorframe. Rare had he seen that rounded face curled so dismally.

"Jenny…?" around, he turned himself. "Jenny, what're you doing here?"

"Sheldon really _does _care for me…." She sniffed. "Processed it was just passing fad, nothing more."

"What's wrong?" he blinked. "Shell didn't do anything to you, did he? If he is, I think that Sol guy's taking care of him right now."

"No." she hugged her angled knees. "Nothing like that. It's just… _oh_ – you couldn't possibly understand yet."

"Like Sol said, 'you do not know until you try'." He smirked.

Jennifer chuckled, softly.

"I was coming to check on you guys." She said. "That's when I came in on Sheldon's little narration. First, I paid it little acknowledgement but the more I listened in, the more… _genuine_ it became. I had no idea what he really thought – no idea what he believed or how he felt. I processed his crush on me was just a sort of infatuation, but even current fascination doesn't run that deep."

"Yep." Tuck nodded. "Who else could forgive you after chucking him into space for a century – after a single hug, no less?"

"I acknowledge that." She nodded back. "Recalling that and countless other times before, I didn't realize how badly I treated him. I almost was no better than the other punks at Tremorton High when I should've been a bit closer – 'a loser, stalker geek' hardly! He and I are alike in some manner. I just didn't acknowledge it until now."

"Except the geek part, per se." He said. "But even that's relative."

"How do you mean?" She shrugged back.

"Dear Jen, most things in this life are relative." Tuck proudly pressed his knuckles against his s-curve. "Beliefs, values, and even time – there are very few absolutes, cardinal virtues irrefutable. We may be all different, some more than others, yet I too believe that we are all geeks in one form or another.

"Sheldon's a classical geek." He said. "The epitome that countless others look down upon for the sake of ego boosting. Technology, fantasy, comics, and the whole nine yards. Is there anyone else who can boast, proficiently they've feelings for a robotic convention's wet dream?"

"Tuck…?" her eyes batted. "The heck do you know what a wet dream is?"

"That's beside the point, Jen." He dismissed. "While we've the classical geek nailed down, we've yet to push the very verge of the geek definition. As I've said before, there are many sorts of geeks out in the world, many different from others. Tell me, Jen, how is a jock any different from a geek?"

"Well… they play sports for one!" she said. "And they're well built and athletic!"

"Jenny, Jenny, Jen…." He shook his head. "You look but don't see! Almost everything is relative in this life! A definition, outside the original one relating to the circus, reads that 'geek' is a peculiar or offensive person. How peculiar are jocks, Jen? It seems they spend most of their waking hours focused solely on their performance, training, and practicing before the big match. They've intelligence quotas of the balls they hit and tell and gesture the most offensive tripe you could ever hear this side of the military… or Skyway Patrol.

"Going by that sort of logic, anyone could be classified as a geek based upon the intensity of his current obsession. Brittany and Tiffany are fashion geeks, so could Don Prima, I'm a toy geek, Brad's a social-climbing geek, and you're a combat – slash – martial arts geek, come to think!"

"_Jutsu _more than _Do,_ most likely." She nodded.

"It doesn't matter, Jen!" he exclaimed, happily. "Acknowledging now what I know, do you feel any less content for Sheldon? Sheldon certainly doesn't. I think he's learned to look beyond mere appearances in favor of the beautiful person inside the armor and ordinance. Perhaps this world would be a better place if we saw the world like that, I think."

"You too think I'm beautiful?" She smiled, warmly.

"Yep." He nodded. "Once mankind learns to look beyond the here and now, I think any person or even robot will be lucky to have you. Just no more throwing people around by their heads, okay?"

She giggled.

"I promise." She took back her arms, rough soles of her boots touching the toe of his shoe. Gradually, she pushed herself to her feet. "Enough sulking on the floor, we've some serious work to do! But before I start, I've one, _very_ important question."

"No, I don't have a smoke!" he frowned. "Why does the crew keep asking me that?"

"Big Tobacco's whacked anyway, Tuck." She smiled. "But that's not what I wanted to ask you."

"Shoot," He shrugged, "fire away."

"How'd a little boy like you learn to be so sophisticated?" she asked.

"I've… a lot of time on my hands." He shrugged. "It's summer vacation, for Pete's sake. This little adventure of yours was a sign from God! Besides, I've a lengthy reading list – I had to get started on it a little before school finally let out."

"Philosophy and now legends." She said. "You really are full of surprises."

"I do what I can." He said. "That's all I can do. So you've finished with the wall?"

"Why?" she smirked. "You need to take a leak?"

"Don't be gross!" he stuck out his tongue. "Actually, I was on my way outside. I've been cooped up here too long. I think its time for some fresh air, don't you agree?"

"I can't breathe." She said. "But I acknowledge what you mean. After checking up on you guys, I was on my way back up to the foredeck. If I recall, the crew were in the middle of moving a hefty crate there. It might be Solomon's."

"Cool!" his lids could not help but part, widely. "Can I see, too?"

"Sure thing." She nodded. "Though I want to ask you one thing, beforehand."

He nodded.

"Go ahead."

Her eyes batted, swiftly and a smile warm pulled at those thin lips of blue.

"When Shell and Sol resolve their differences," she said, "or when you run into Sheldon next, tell him he's in the for the night of his life!"

---

The foredeck swept clean by the wind, it was but a hollow brush against her tympanums. The sun typical bright, it graced the boards cleanly by an impressive glint. Many a variety of birds ushered in the season from the abrupt shoreline, chirps chipper that better days were here indeed.

All in all, it was yet another day in Bermuda; Jenny and crew were here but today, a tragedy true under better circumstances.

The crew aloof, they had returned to their positions arbitrary as soon as Solomon's impressive crate had been frustratingly ushered from the holds. Beside itself upon the rich stain, the box stood almost as tall as Brad and about as wide as her arm span. Emblazoned an ivory grainy, the side before her bore a rather strange symbol. It was an escutcheon; it had been brushed possibly years ago on a bulk of the face – a helix that twisted down onto a visage elliptical with two large circles dotting it like an owl's eyes.

"Talk 'bout a mystery box!" Tucker had placed a stubby finger to his chin, thoughtfully. "This is Solomon's stuff?"

"You'll have to forgive the guy, Tuck." She said. "He's a rather weird duck, into all this mysticism and necromancy—"

Tucker gagged, large eyes nearly popping out from those sockets.

"Oh – _God…!_" the boy spat. "I thought he's strange enough…!"

"What??" she blinked. "What's wrong? Caught a fly in your mouth?"

"No – think I threw up in my mouth a bit." He shook his head, fiercely. "Shouldn't have had cola first thing in the morning for some reason."

"Tuck," she frowned, "what's up?"

The boy shot her a look incredulous.

"What _do you mean_ 'what's wrong'??" those large eyes batted. "Aren't you the one who said he hops on the good foot and does the bad thing with dead people?"

Her eyes batted back, incredulously equal; it was her turn!

"_What…?_"

"Jen – you just said that Sol guy has sex with _dead_ people!" Tuck exclaimed. "Not fresh, not living – _dead…!_ That sick kid!"

"Oh – Tucker!" the ridge of her hand clanged against her crown. "Necrophile – _NECROPHILE!!_ Get your words straightened out! Man – and I thought you were beyond simple mix ups!"

"What do you mean?" the boy asked, suspiciously. "One's probably just a euphemism for the other!"

"Necrophiles are the ones who _do it_ with the dead, Tuck." It she put, bluntly. "Necromancers are ones who 'talk' with the dead. All the latter want to do is summon the departed for special insight or knowledge of the future while the former are better suited to relationships with completely non-responsive people – total control freaks!"

"Oh." Tuck blinked. "And what exactly does Sol want to know, hmm…? When he's going to die, or if this little legend pans out into a red herring? Or maybe something else, I don't know!"

"I've little to no data on it, Tuck." She shook her head. "Frankly, I'd rather not have any. Whatever floats Sol's boat's fine with me – provided we don't have a repeat of the museum, that is."

"Brad told me." The boy replied. "How're your wounds treating you?"

"They're okay." She sighed in vexation. "I shouldn't have let Solomon get off the hook so easy. Man, I'd sure like to pay him back for that night! _Maa Durga _is itching for some payback!"

"Then get the jump on him!" Tucker said. "Let's crack this thing open, already – see what tricks he's got up those neatly pressed sleeves, you know?"

She nodded, whole-heartedly.

Arm buzzing a drawl of a whirr, her digit appropriately lengthened for a crate such as this. Visible faces brimmed thinly by a single line, it appeared as though the top simply arced open; her digit gave it a try. The hinges weak, a challenge worthless, but a curl of the digit made the topper smack against the crate's rear.

"That was easy."

Taken the lead Tucker had, a running start as little feet propelled him for a fresh edge. _Humph_ and a leap great, effort paid off, wide eyes peered over the old molding, eagerly. Her boots met the floorboards, heavily; she too decided to have a bit of a look—

"Holy cow…!" Tuck's wide eyes boggled… as did hers. "Look at all this stuff!"

Crate brimmed by many a weapon melee, all of design humble and simple, there was enough to start a small riot. It struck her of Tremorton's museum, weapons old used for centuries countless at their many handlers' whim; greed or a sense great beyond, it did not matter. Variety of many blades, a couple axes, several shields, and even a great maul, the crate seemed to have it all…!

Like a child adrift within a favorite shop, wide-eyed awe, danger struck Tucker not in the least, as fingers quickly took up… a parasol…?

"An umbrella??" Tuck's eyes crossed. "And a paper one at that! The heck's this thing doing in a box like this?"

"Hold on a sec, Tuck." Relinquished it quick, she wisely did. "Let me see here…. Is this what I think it is…?"

In her hands the humble parasol design either of China or Japan: a twist subtle of the _tsuka _– and diabolical intent harshly gleamed in the light! _Iai_ sword within the rod – a _shikomizue_, blade defiant hidden from inquisitive eyes within purest silk, never before did she process that her eyes would ever lie upon one.

Though her existence complete, hardly!

"Entrust your noble… _ghost_ – in your sword…."

It came from a little behind; refitted the door back into its frame, Solomon did with a blind swing. Lighter brown hands quickly hid into thin pockets of denim, sneakers carrying him for her, casually. A simple greeting he gestured with but a single shrug of neatly pressed shoulders.

"Been rummaging through my ancient crate, I assume." He said. "Great as this yacht's armory, I doubt that impressive collection carries a weapon such as the one your handling."

"There's enough stuff here to start a dang riot!" Tucker exclaimed. "Where the heck did you find all this stuff?"

"I did not find these weapons." He shook his head. "Rather, the true owner of this chest. It was simply loaned to me for the sake of this journey."

"It seems your buddy's poured his heart and soul into this crate." A warbling rattling relatively deep, the eastern blade found itself back into its place of peace once more. Hands carefully replaced it back into the crate, parasol collapsed upwards. "Did he build all these himself or did he buy them from someone else?"

"My acquaintance is a rather strange man." Solomon said. "A true master, he was known throughout the world for his mastery of many martial arts – not unlike the legendary 'Master of Blades'. In fact, it was once said when the two met that they fought each other into a draw. I have met him only a couple of times. Even I was impressed despite his… rather _unusual _façade."

"Two true masters…." It was but a process rather lengthy. "Where'd one look if he's looking for either?"

"One most likely has been long since gone." Sol shook his head. "I am not sure of the other, unless he is busy taking yet another nap. That is a peculiar trait concerning the latter – he would but make brief, volatile appearances before he secluded back in his olden hermitage. Even I am not sure exactly where is that place."

She folded her arms, guardedly.

"And yet you somehow managed to 'borrow' this crate…?" Her brow kinked. "Care to explain yourself?"

"We had met once again during a trek in the Caucus." He said. "Wherever he goes, that crate is typically not far behind. Telling him of my impending trek to lands far west, I asked if I could borrow his crate. He agreed, telling me of other weapon crates he had within his hermitage."

"Why do I've the feeling you're holding something back." Her brow furrowed.

"Neither holding back nor honest." The baldy sighed. "I am not concerned with opinions' petty matters. If you do not want to believe me – I do not truly care. We have a quest to complete. Now, might I inquire to what you were looking for within this chest?"

"Simple curiosity, Solomon." She shrugged back. "I wanted to see what stuff you've got, and I have to say it's pretty impressive for melee. But this is the latter twenty-first century! Since the machine gun, swords, flails, and even bayonets have been rendered obsolete! Shouldn't you or your friend procure some serious heat for this thing?"

"Spoil such fine works with such profanity!?" he frowned, strongly. "Ridiculous! That which is contained within the crate is not trivial such as common guns. Do not underestimate by sheer appearance – you should know this better than most, Jennifer! These are but functional testaments to what greatness a well-honed man – or woman – can achieve! Just ask Sheldon or even me!"

"But well honed and training are key!" she argued. "Not everyone on this ship has my skill or even Shell's! Brad's hardly exercised a day in his life, Brit and Tiff are consumed daily by looks, and Tuck here's only ten years old! And after that stint at the mall, you ought to be the _last _one talking 'bout melee combat!"

"It was but a sucker punch!" he frowned back. "Would you care to put your little hypothesis to the test, little Jennifer…?"

"_Ha!_" she laughed. "You challenge me?? Don't make me laugh! What're you going to do, sick another reveling ant on me?"

Out came a sigh disgusted.

"It was called a 'revenant' – 'REV-EN-ANT'!" he exclaimed. "If it were not for me, you would not be standing here! And if you so confident that I am playing no more than a blowfish, would you have something to lose if you dared to try me? I promise I shall not strike you, harshly… too much."

"Okay, Sol!" a smirk confident pulled at her lips. "You're on!"

"Very well." He nodded. "This should be interesting. I propose a match of one-on-one armed combat, best two out of three. The first to knock out his opponent or to push him off the foredeck wins the round.

"To keep the playing field level, I suggest that your only weapon is the one you so choose out from my crate and nothing more. Too, I propose that you limit your strength that of a couple people average – just as am I."

"Agreed." She nodded.

Whining servos slowing, the whirring drawl a diminuendo, complete was the process complete but a couple blinks of her eyes. So simple, so anticlimactic yet it beat the manual override by a shot long. Behind her armor chest, there were certain things that a ten-year-old should not see.

"Done." She said. "You can take me on, fairly – that is if you _can…!_"

"Good." Solomon had fixated on the loose bracelet on his wrist, the toggle awkward through the round eye. "Now… choose your weapon. While time is short, do your best to ensure that it is indeed but your natural extension – as though it were no more but another device of your being. Do you… get my meaning?"

"I think I do…." She put a digit to her chin, intently. "I'm not certain. And… what exactly are you doing, Solomon?"

"My decision has already been made, Jennifer."

A clattering rip, the strange bracelet he held up like a trophy. The toggle strange, a brown thumb rubbed at it, tentatively – and it fell upon the boards as though it was hot in his hand.

"You shall see firsthand…!" thicker lips smirked, sharply—

The toggle but a dark speck, all in exact proportion it suddenly grew, exponentially! The curved spine firmly tapped the toe of her boot, a blunt ring but the point of exclamation of this wonderment, strangely captivating. The scythe once a toggle now full size, it stretched from her boot to his sneaker – as tall as Sol, the wicked blade perpendicular a little under half. Trimmed thinly, it glared at her with a golden eye. Ornate conical pommel and chubby fortes, in between was caught the simple, lengthy grip.

Up he scooped it into his firm grip, simply.

"Yes, that is right." He held it out, confidently – _single handedly_! "That is what it takes…!"

Her eyes batted, incredulously; through her ghost, a process of foreboding could not help but surge, strongly!

_Oh boy…!_

"Come, Girl of Armor!" a step back, his scythe swung to the ready. "Choose your weapon – show me your power!"


	13. Chapter XIII

XIII

Rolling hills of barren waste hinted by the stars spectacular, they were but a subtle, haunting smear beyond the concave windows. The family transport had suddenly rolled on this blackened path since a little past this "_'ishaa'_", it seemed with little chance for a comfort stop. She liked not where this was truly going; already, her oil meal was beginning to churn, sourly.

"Where are we going?" Vexus asked. "Shouldn't we be sleeping by now or something?"

"That would be true under any other circumstances." It said, sincerely before her from the comfort of the larger seat. "A little after our meal, I had received word from a one of my friends that the IPS with Skyway Patrol were conducting surprise raids through town since _'ishaa'_ had started!"

"Over my presence, no doubt!" she hissed.

"Indeed." Its full head of curly dark bobbed. "I hope you will forgive the crude interruption of your meal – pun not intended!"

"Rather have my dipstick come up dry than end up in their hands any day." She shrugged. "And you didn't answer my question. Where exactly are you taking me?"

"To a 'safe house' in Mosul." It said. "I know a someone there who is really good with complicated machines such as yourself. He twice competed in Iraq's incarnation of the 'Robot Riot'—"

She growled an irritable crescendo.

"Oh– _'afwan!_" It yelped, strangely. "With one of your sophistication, it is hard for me to construe you no less than human, even with your buzzing, working innards."

"Never mind it." Her arms folded. "And what exactly is your buddy going to do? Throw on some cheap tack welds and boot me out the door?"

"Do not be so cynical." It replied. "He _is_ really good with machines. Almost he had created a bipedal robot just as sophisticated as the XJ9 unit—"

Out came another irritable growl.

"_Maadhaa!?_" It yelped again. "Something I had said…?"

"Let's just say little Jennifer Wakeman and I aren't on speaking terms." She huffed. "Go on."

"_Na'am_, as I was saying." It continued. "My friend had constructed an automaton almost on par with America's XJ9 unit, but he lacks the programming knowledge to bring it to life. If he did have that knowledge, the GRUXJ9 would have some true competition her side of the old Armagedroid system."

Her brow perked.

"Really…?"

"Yes." It said. "But currently, it has been gathering dust in a corner of his workshop. It did not look it will ever function properly until that meteorite landed between Chamchamal and Sulaymaniyah…."

"Just what're you getting at?" she frowned.

"I had made a call to him just before we all left the house." It said. "Your body appears to be a few steps short of being on its last legs. As soon as we can – and if you so desire, I propose that we transfer your ghost into his machine."

"A noble idea but I've yet to see this shell!" she said. "This planet diverse as they come, there is very a few shell I'd whole heartedly transplant myself into. I may not be spring chicken anymore, but I refuse to shortchange myself into something crude and primitive!"

"Yes, but like you had said, you have yet to see this machine." It pressed. "Give him a chance – I am certain that you will like what you will see. Even if you are not convinced that a full switch is the best course of action, he will gladly replace anything he possibly can. He and even Abdullah here shall even throw in a fresh paintjob for free—!"

She just had to laugh; the offspring pilot glanced her a strange eye.

"_Maadhaa?_" those cloudy eyes blinked. "What did I say this time?"

"Remember," she struggled through, "I am from a world full of robots! A word here may have a completely different meaning in mine – such as 'paintjob'—!"

A fit of giggle, she loudly erupted.

"And what exactly does a 'paintjob' entail on your world, _'imra'a_?" the offspring just had to ask.

"Let's say it's close to the equivalent of one of your 'rainbow parties'." She sniggered. "Should I elaborate further—?"

"_Laa – LAA!_" the offspring exclaimed. "That is not necessary - I have a pretty good imagination…!"

"Very good, then." She smirked. "Now drive faster!"

A sigh disgruntled hissed from the passenger seat.

"_Ugh – na'am, 'um…!_"

---

But a thumbing of his toggle, Solomon had managed to produce a hefty, rather wicked scythe; the baldy outwardly held it, triumphantly.

"Come, girl of armor." Sol challenged into his stance. "Show me your power!"

Jennifer had flashed him the back of her metal skirt, instead, stiff hem climbing up the back of her thin legs while her torso flung deeply into the olden crate.

"Just a second!" she called. "Got to find that extension and all…!"

Firm hem ceasing just below tiny buttocks, a sharp smile tugged at Tucker's lips.

"She showing a lot more than power!" He giggled. "I see London, I see France – I see Jenny's underpants…!"

"Keep looking, Tuck!" to her boots' thick balls, she pushed. "You're going to get it in a minute!"

"Cyan panties, too?" he blinked. "You got a blue fetish or what?"

"Damn it, Tuck!" she yelled. "_Knock it off!!_"

"You know, Jenny, you're lucky Sheldon's not up here." He smirked. "He'll be knocking something – and it'll definitely be _off_, if you get my drift—!"

Flashed him a bit of her rear, more of her sank into the crate as her boot uplifted level to the opposite knee. The air around her sole was a thick, choking haze while the large, integral nozzle glowed, vehemently!

"Two strikes!" she growled. "Keep going—!"

"I'm good!" wide and sheepish, he grinned. "I'll let Solomon take it from here."

"Thanks…." Solomon returned with a frown. "Have you made your choice, Jennifer?"

"Dang it!" she cursed. "Just nothing in this heap that's screaming at me!"

"It may not scream at you at all." The baldy said. "It may well be the very first decision you make. You simply might surprise yourself to what you may achieve – as had I with Kafziel."

"Jewish folklore?" she asked, quizzically; even Tucker shot a look incredulous. "The angel appointed to take the life of kings? What does he have to do with anything?"

"Yes, my scythe current happens to share that namesake." That bald cap of brown nodded. "In fact, many of my scythes share names with deities of grim, similar task."

"You've _more??_" inside, Jenny nearly tumbled.

"Indeed, but not all scythes – I have found – are one in the same." Sol explained. "Snaths too long, chines too heavy, and many too cumbersome. My collection was but the inexorable result of my personal quest to find my natural extension. I was rather fortunate to discover this one at the very start though I had not known it, at the time."

"So when did it click with you?" His fingers snapped. "Just like that?"

"You could say that." He nodded. "My movements true, my cuts clean, and it handles not like an olden caravan. Upon the discovery, I called this blade my personal one. The others of my collection are but secondary. Might it perk your interest, remind me to show you sometime."

"I'll keep that in the back of my RAM." She pushed further into the box. "Almost there…!"

"Same goes for me, too." He nodded. "You know, I always wanted to try my hand at melee fighting."

"_Pf…_" Jenny crudely snorted. "Wasn't it something to do with Pistolero flourishes and six-shooter tricks last week, Tuck?"

"I'll have you know gun tricks hold valuable information!" he frowned.

"You're such a ten-year old...!" she dismissed.

"You're a such a killjoy!" he snapped.

"Wannabe!"

"Trashed rust bucket—!"

"How – _DARE you…!_"

"As much as I would hate to break up this moment of… bonding," Solomon interjected, "I believe we have a bout to initiate. Have you finally come to a decision, Ms. Wakeman?"

"Aw – screw it!" gradually, she eased down flat on her heels. "Yes, Solomon – here's my decision!"

Upon her wide heel, she spun around with grace lackluster that of an amateur. Within a firm, stubby clench dangled a short sword by the grip – a leaf-shaped blade for a purpose duel. The hilt ornate, relatively compared to impressive Kafziel, it seemed to lack any effective defense; hence, the small shield clenched in the sinister grip. Up she held them as though she meant something intimidating.

"Hoplite sword and buckler." She said. "Who can beat this classic?"

"It shall be a challenge, though I believe I can handle it without incident." Solomon rolled his neck. "As the almighty ones watch over us, shall we unleash our fury, Jennifer?"

Jenny blinked, as did he.

"Uh…" the point touched her hard scalp in question, "_what?_"

"_Ugh!_" Sol's hand met his crown, swiftly. "Such sophistication and wonder, how quickly I forget I am in the presence of the remedial. Are you ready, girl of armor? That is what I mean, or should I simply spell it out for you?"

Mishmash – many a clang that his ears had never the displeasure, Jenny eagerly bounced on her thick boots as though she were somewhat versed in Jeet Kun Do.

"Keep it up, Solomon!" her smirk as sharp as her blade. "Death angel or not, I'll make sure your butt's going down! Finally, I can pay you back for the revving ant—!"

"Revenant, I had said!" the baldy took to his stance, strongly. "REV-en-ANT!"

"Whatever!" with a shout, she dismissed. "Let's just do this thing!"

"That's right." Sol smirked back. "That's what it takes…!"

"Come on – let's _go…!_"

---

The match a taxing quest, the grueling battle ended with the victory of…

_No one!_ Tuck affirmed with a single nod. _Absolutely no one…_

Solomon and Jennifer were evenly matched, it seemed. The opponents caved in not, each pushing for all and even a bit more; strange Solomon the biggest surprise of all! Despite the years a little more than he, it was as though Sol had training far beyond his meager teens. Hardly, he did think the guy could swing that menacing blade around with such proficiency, trained ease, and grace – handicap notwithstanding at all!

Too, the impressive arcs had caught Jenny by surprise, once catching under and behind her buckler, flicking it away. The conical pommel came down atop her thick instep, enough not to puncture yet plenty to surprise – just like the blocky heel, quickly to her face; a shout of an effort futile Sol's subtle war cry.

From there, it had been easy to toss Jenny to the floor in a wreck senseless – straight onto the thick belly of the blade in wait. A huff intense, the heavy blade scooped up Jenny by the neck – a natural girl instantly gone forever more in the midst of that incredible swing toss as Solomon had shouted, promptly.

_May you sleep for eternity…?_ Tuck blinked. _How strange…_

Jenny was not without her surprises, catching Sol off guard as well. On, she kept moving, bobbing, and weaving like a professional fighter; her sword of wise choice, Sol was hard pressed to keep that deadly leaf from stabbing past his scythe. Once his arcing cut overextended, wide open his face, Jenny had jumped at it – _truly_ with one heck of a bicycle kick! It was but a second after that Sol found his back against the floorboards; Jen's soles had landed, perfectly.

"Ready to…" The swing-toss fresh, Jenny struggled compiling, "back down…?"

"Not on your existence, dear Jennifer." Solomon took in a breath haggard, rubbing sorely at his jaw. "Playtime… is _OVER!_"

"I nearly punted your head off!" she yelled. "I should know – I used to be on Tremorton High's football team!"

"And I nearly slicked yours off like a grape." He gasped. "So… what is your point? Do you wish to continue or do you not—?"

"I choose not!" a voice pompous interjected.

A glance quick to starboard – the gruesome twosome stood imposingly on elevated feet, faces pulled into utter disdain. By the wooden hanger, Brit draped what appeared to be a couple large pieces of dry cleaning over her shoulder. Tiffany merely stomped her boot, crossly.

"We barely be gone for half a day and already they tearing this place apart!" the little girl exclaimed. "This place is a mess!"

"Fret not, dear cousin." Plain-and-tall replied. "They'll be the ones cleaning with toothbrushes once Daddy has word with them. We've better things to do than maintenance, after all."

"Whatever…." Tiffany gave the baldy an eye favorable, a smirk stretching just above her chubby chin. "Well – Tall, dark, and handsome, who might you be…?"

"Solomon Al." baldy shrugged. "I had boarded at the last minute, if you did not hear the PA. I believe I have not had the pleasure. It is safe to assume you two are our gracious hostesses?"

"Just spell assume." Brit folded her arms. "Assuming makes an _ass_ out of _u_ and _me…._"

"You are not the proper host then?" he asked.

"No." Ms. Buckteeth shook her head. "You've dear Daddy to thank for that. We're simply the poor saps who are being dragged along for your buddies' little treasure hunt! If you'd like a proper tour of Adrian II, talk to him or one of the crew."

"Adrian…." Over it Sol pondered, thoughtfully. "Where have I heard that name before…?"

"Perhaps one of those old the 'Rocky' films." Brit huffed. "Now, if you don't mind, clean up your little mess before I sick Captain Casque on you! You should find some mops and even some stain somewhere in the nearby utility closet."

"What's your damage _this_ time, Brit?" Jenny asked. "Where's the mess? Do you see a mess? I don't see a mess! Do you see a mess, Tuck?"

"Nope!" he shook his head. "No mess here."

"It's the PRINCIPLE OF THE THING!!" Buckteeth's shout but whining squeals.

"Role reversal." Solomon mused aloud. "Interesting…!"

"Oh – shut _up_, Sol…!" Jenny moaned back.

"And you!" Tiff yelled. "The hell you doing with them weapons? Your systems on the fritz or something?"

"It's called a friendly exhibition match – thank you very much!" Jen yelled back. "Full power wouldn't exactly be fair, would it?"

"'Friendly'?" Tiff's heavily lined eyes crossed in the midst of her point. "You call _that_ friendly?? The hell is that!? You're a damn mess, girl – cut up and scratched to Hell! No respect for yourself – crap look ridiculous!"

"Play with swords, you're bound to get a knick or two, dear cousin." Brit mused. "Thankfully, we're beyond such barbarity. Why chip our nails when the crew can do the fighting for us?"

"You may be beyond that, I'm not – sure as hell!" Tiff ground her knuckles into her scratchy palm. "Nothing better than getting down and dirty, I tell you what!"

"Well, if you must sink to their level, be sure not to while wearing your new ensemble." Buckteeth said, rather needlessly. "It cost father plenty on his MasterCard, after all."

"You've been shopping all this time?" Jen blinked. "_Ugh – _I should've expected this from you two…."

"We're in Bermuda – and you expect us _not_ to procure some trendy souvenirs?" Retorted Ms. Buckteeth with a forward swing of her lengthy dry cleaning. "You must be mad, for we've picked up some rather fashionable evening gowns in town this morning. Jean-Philippe originals, I might add!"

"What is it with you and that fruit-loop?" he asked. "Talk about one serous _mad-on_…!"

"Tuck, what is with you today?" Jenny just had to ask.

"What??" he shrugged back. "I'm just participating in public discourse!"

"And maybe a little _extra_ credit, too." She smirked.

"What's that supposed to mean!?" he crossed his arms.

"Oh… _nothing!_" Jen dismissed.

"Are you fools done here?" Tiff pressed.

"Yes," Brit nodded, "if all of you are quite satisfied with your little bout, would you mind cleaning after yourselves? And move that horrid-looking crate back down to the cargo holds! I don't ever want to lay eyes on it again – or don't be surprised if it suddenly falls overboard, you understand?"

"Do not touch my crate!" Solomon frowned, strongly. "Or you will have to deal with me and Kafziel!"

The baldy reared his scythe back to the ready; On, Tucker gazed perplexed.

"But… it's not even _your_ crate." He noted aloud.

Sol pressed his thicker lips into an incensed, thin line.

"You truly are a _fascinating_ little boy…!" Sol groaned.

"Hey – I'm not a little boy!" he frowned. "I'm a big kid now!"

"Still wearing Pull-Ups, Tuck?" Jenny grinned, brightly.

"HEY!!" he shouted. "You weren't supposed to tell…!"

"Lord, I'm ever so weary of this circus." Brittany yawned melodramatic. "Come, Tiff. Let this cavalcade work this mess out amongst themselves. We've a testing fitting to start."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." That horned, wool cap of fuchsia shook. "No time like the present."

"Indeed." Brit nodded. "Now, I want to see my beautiful face shine on the foredeck's boards the second I come back – and move that damn crate back to the holds! If I see one thing out of order, I'll just have Captain Casque move you all to the engine room! The crew does say it's haunted…!"

"_Boo!_"

Tuck yelped, aptly.

"_Oh…!_" Jenny replied with a mock of a gesture. "Mean old Brit and Tiff threatened me – whatever shall we do?"

"Clean _this _MESS!" Brit stomped. "That's what!"

"We're not that old!" Tiff protested.

"I wouldn't mind the engine room, actually." She put a digit to her round chin. "Plenty of lube, plenty of big, strong men to help me out, and it wouldn't surprise me if I saw a couple of – _spiders_ crawling about!"

The word a mere mention, the smaller girl's throat shifted hard.

"And I don't think you'll be bothering Sheldon too much." A smirk smug, she carried on. "He is one of those dreaded _nerds_, after all…!"

"That is ENOUGH!" At the peak of her lungs, Brittany shouted.

"Just say the word, Brit!" The midget dropped into some sort of hunch. "I'll get my grieve edges and kick the hell out of these mother—!"

"Enough, dear cousin." Buckteeth took in a breath. "We've played their little game long enough. It's a little past noon – our eveningwear isn't going to fit itself, is it?"

"Guess not." Tiff pushed back up to a stand. "Still – scythe or not, I'd like to try my blades sometime this century."

"We shall accept your challenge anytime, Ms—"

Even Sol himself could not finish; Tiff certainly would not let him.

"There's that age thing again!" A little sharper, pink horns angled pointedly while the brow furrowed, strongly underneath. "I told you we're not _that _old…!"

"And I _told_ YOU that we've wasted enough time!" Dark, slender fingers gave pink cap a sturdy tap. "We're out of here! Now, clean up your mess before the captain has a word with you!"

Dagger heels clacking away, thickly textured soles of imposing boots were known when Ms. Buckteeth blindly yanked the midget off balance. Drums scratched by a dull scrape, the two lost themselves past a heavy door, gradually with small, squirming weight in hand.

"Will you let go of me…?" It said strained.

"Hush up, Tiff!" came the reply, fading though the closing door.

"Well, that was fun." Jenny shrugged. "Should we continue, Solomon?"

"No, I think that is all for now." Gravity seized the arced blade, dragging it to an angle acute by the tang. "You have proved yourself, Jennifer. So has Mr. Lee for that matter. Honestly, I believe it to be wise if I test Mr. Carbuncle's proficiency."

His eyes batted something fierce.

"Who – _me??_"

"Not you." Sol shook his greasy head. "The _other_ Carbuncle."

"_Pf…_ Mr. Armor Lad?" she laughed. "Good luck with that one! He needs all the help he can get!"

"So I surmised." Sol nodded.

"Well, the deck's not going to clean itself." He had to interject. "The gruesome twosome's right – this place is a mess! There are scratches and scuffs everywhere!"

The twosome had not been wrong at all. Rough arcs and smears of white dappled across the rich stain, a furious testament of the morning's great struggle. In several shaved rather deep, a couple dots of white punched clean into the boards, yet few had been of Solomon's arcing, swinging hands. Put them did Jennifer's heavy boots to shame.

"Whoops…!" only that said she.

"Perhaps it would have been better to practice on the dock." Sol said, equally simple. "Sometimes, I know not my own power."

"The deck and the owners know _now…!_" he pressed. "And my folks think my room is bad. Jenny, couldn't you've taken off your boots for once?"

"And what good would that do, Tuck?" Over the blunt tapping of her legs, she said through a frown. "There's no avoiding it! I'm metallic all over, inside and out. Besides, I'm… kind of sensitive 'bout my forelegs."

He replied, merely with a shrug.

"Whatever's clever." He said. "Perhaps Shell can whip you up some rubber soles. Still, we need to do something 'bout this deck!"

"Agreed." Sol ran his hands over the lengthy grip. "Now, where did that man put that switch…?"

"Me too." She nodded. "And I've just the solution!"

Sword and buckler fell from her grasp, needlessly onto the boards.

"RESPECT the equipment, Jennifer!" Solomon barked.

"Oops – sorry…!" she sheepishly grinned.

Boots heavily moved the robot for the closet of Brittany's irritable mention, flanking the cabin's door. The plain door arced open wide, easily enough, and many a different tool seemed to have dropped into shiny, awaiting arms. A couple brooms, a couple mops, a browned brush, and hefty can of stain, most were longer or fatter than he when Jenny strolled up to meet him rather… _promptly._

"Here you go, Tuck!"

Eardrums fought against the rattling clatter, the large bucket of stain rolled to a stop against his shoe.

"_What??_" he blinked. "What'd you want me to do?"

"We just had a group meeting, and you're the lucky soul who's playing the loveable janitor!" she smiled.

"And what group meeting was I involved?" Sol batted his eyes, as well—

A growl escaped her speaker; dark lids ceased in the midst of a blink.

"Never mind, then." The baldy shrugged.

"Anyway, I've got you some brooms, mops, and some stain with a brush." She said, casually. "Be sure to sweep up any loose debris before you start to mop. You should find a wheeled bucket with a wringer in the closet along some cleaner, if I recall. There's a full mop-well in there, too if you can't find either. Now when you mop, spin the mop along the x-axis first so the fibers can spread out, relatively even. Once the deck's clean, you can begin to—"

"Hey, I didn't sign up to be your maid!" he stomped. "I'm here to help you guys—"

"_You're_ here 'cause your 'rents had no place to put you!" she frowned back. "Considering how dangerous this trip is, you shouldn't be here either! But since we're all stuck, we have to deal with it!"

"But I can help!" he protested. "I can help if you actually taught me how to do something!"

"If you cannot be trusted with little, you cannot be trusted with much, Tucker." Solomon said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he frowned.

"It means what it means." She took a knee in front. "If you can't sweep the deck, why should I process that you can fight, or shoot, or whatever? Can you tell me that?"

"Well… no." He sighed.

"Baby steps, Tuck." She said. "Do good in the little and Sol or I can show you a thing or two later, okay?"

"Fine…!" He huffed. "Just don't abandon me here all day!"

"Don't get your Pull-Ups in a bunch." She smirked. "Now, hop to it. I'm off to see where's your brother. Maybe later, we all can get something to eat."

"Whatever." He sighed. "Just answer me this question."

"Certainly." She smiled. "What's up?"

"As weird as this sounds…." At Sol, he gazed suspicious. "Do you really think Solomon lost his eye…?"

---

"_Na'am!_" It exclaimed, cheerfully. "We have made it, finally!"

Through the wide door up rolling, her thin boots carried her inside the barren dwelling of gray stone and metal. Oil was known everywhere, erratically dappling in dark, greasy smears upon the floor. A primitive transport stood at rest upon its four feet of rubber, taking a greasy leak out its low underbelly upon the stone in messy dribbles. A table lengthy, her will-be gurney occupied the empty space to her left.

Beside itself in the back corner, incredibly stood a large fold thick of plastic.

"This is the place?" The space, her eyes rolled over disappointed. "It's very… primal."

Equipment around simple and token, it would serve her no more than common tack welds at least. Hardly enough before an inevitable sojourn, the Prime's devil surely would lose himself deep within this spiraling mud ball.

Vexus could not have that!

"Remember, _'imra'a_, Iraq is not Israel – let alone America." It frowned. "Despite our vast source of crude, we are lucky to have what we have. Gratefulness! One must be grateful for what breaks he receives or he will not find a shred of inner peace."

"Perhaps such concept is not of her way, _'Ab_." The older offspring said.

Back she frowned, sternly with a growl; hardly, the progeny was impressed with loosely swathed arms folded, crossly.

"Enough, Abdullah!" It frowned, too. "Our guest may not be in her prime, but I believe she is more than a match for you. Same to you, Amine."

Her growing probe was a gleaming sliver in the floodlight. The progenies' eyes crossed, promptly!

"Do you get its point?" she smirked.

"Too have I a name, _'imra'a_." it said. "I am a _rajul_ from sunrise to sunset for everyday of the week and everyday of the year. You may call me Murad."

"Sorry." She said, simply. "I've hardly been one of the people back home. Always isolated with work and current obsessions."

"Your ethic seems to have cost you, dearly." "Murad" said. "Why else would you be here?"

"That's up for debate." She dismissed. "So where is this buddy of yours—?"

"He is where he should be, Miss."

A voice deep and accent radically different – in the rear corner to her left, a heavy man stood with garments streaked with pencil-thin lines. Arm equally swathed and neatly pleated, both were square behind the tailored back. His face perked with years a little past a quarter century, yet the slicked mat of brown and gray atop the large head betrayed him. Gnarled digits plucked a smoldering tube thick of brown from average lips, a blackened wad crumbled upon its meet with the floor.

His hidden hands shifted, suddenly; out shot her probe at full length.

"Put that thing away." The stranger shook his head. "You're in no danger here – you're safe!"

Her arms crossed, she dropped to a hunch when leathery shoes moved the man closer.

"_Pf…!_" he snorted, haughtily. "Typical denizen of Cluster Prime. No regards to anything not of paneling and oil. The great queen, Vexus, I assume…?"

"Cluster PRIME!?" The younger offspring's eyes crossed, completely.

"I knew there was something off concerning her tale!" too, the older one dropped into a crouch. "She looked so familiar – now I know why—!"

"Anyone who touches me gets the _shaft!_" she yelled. "Under – _STAND!?_"

"Knock it off!" the stranger yelled. "I refuse to let my home become an abattoir! No one will do anything to anyone unless there is no other choice!"

"You know who she is!" the younger one exclaimed. "You have seen what she has done to our planet – we _all_ have seen it!"

"We would want to help her – _WHY??_" the older one yelled. "Deposed of her own throne – her own subjects do not want her! We should have left her to burn!"

"If you don't want to help me, I don't really care!" she seethed, bitterly. "You all are about to die, anyway—!"

A crack loud of fire, very close she was from where it had blasted. A glance quick at the stranger, his gnarled hand clenched a sort of archaic hand weapon a bit shorter than the length of her forearm. Hole a little larger than her opposing digit, out fleeting wisps of gray churned from it, generously.

"It pays to be so close to the Promised Land, doesn't it?" the stranger mused. "The Palestinian who sold me this claims it to be the infamous Eagle of Israel's great '_Katastrofah_'!"

A _whoosh _abrupt, she swung her probe to the ready; toward her, imposingly, he trained its smoky, pentagonal face.

"Ah – ah – _AH…!_" he smirked. "No bloodshed in my house till I say different. This weapon maybe primeval to you, yet still with eight more rounds – all solid-steel cores – it's more than enough to decommission any Cluster denizen that moves – even you! Now put that thing away!"

She growled, irately; the stranger smirked sharper.

"You don't want Nyx very badly, do you…?"


	14. Chapter XIV

XIV

"You know of Nyx??" Vexus blinked amazed. "How—!?"

"You do want him, after all." Replied the stranger. "So eager to pay him back for all your holes and fissures – with interest, no doubt."

"You didn't answer my question!" she frowned, strongly. "How do you know about Nyx?"

"Like Murad," gravity flipped the weapon impressive from his grip by the protruding length; it dangled by the squared guard before loose fingers uplifted it to his palm, "I am a veteran of the Intergalactic War, as well. In the Motherland's branch of Skyway Patrol, I was assigned to force recognizance. I've come to know all about you, your great Cluster Prime, and those few whom wished to topple it long before your politico of a daughter – everything during that war."

Cautiously, her stance eased.

"Who are you…?" she asked.

"But a humble ex-patriot of the Motherland." A twist to the side, the meat-bag tucked the weapon behind his back. "I am Salamon Matveevich Rex, a former Skyway Patrol member turned engineer. You, great Queen Vexus, need no introduction. The whole galaxy knows of your great empire… and humiliating deposition."

"You're not helping yourself!" she growled.

"Actually, I am." "Salamon" smirked. "I'm the only one here, outside the IPS and Skyway Patrol, who can repair a robot of your complexity. You can barely stand as it is. Kill me and you'll never hold a candle up to the Prime's little devil!"

"Few have even heard of Nyx, even within this planet's governments!" her brow furrowed. "How did you?"

"The enemy of my enemy's my friend, my dear." The meat-bag shrugged. "It was my job to discover yours during the war and hopefully unleash it. That was my mission, anyway, before the brass canceled it the last minute. 'Too dangerous', they claimed."

"They were right!" she hissed. "The greatest, possible threat to the whole galaxy's running loose somewhere on this mud ball, and…!"

"It's all your fault, I surmise." The meat-bag said.

"No!" She spat. "If it hadn't been for the revolution, we wouldn't be in this mess! Now he's off looking for some bizarre, soul-eating sword—"

"The Soul Edge??" those weary, brown eyes batted.

"You know of it, too?" Upright, she stood; back into her index, the probe slipped. "Does everyone on this planet know of it?"

"Not everyone." The olden male shook its head. "Only a well-learned few have come across a shred of the tale of 'Souls and Swords'. Even then, it's hardly enough to proceed with. What would Mr. Night want with it?"

"I'm not certain, though I've a good conjecture what he's trying to do." She said. "He could either try it on my planet or here – it doesn't matter to him! Already, he's experienced your latter hours. Given the composition and light refraction of this atmosphere, he's more powerful than GRUXJ9 until…."

"The sunrise." Salamon finished.

"Yes." She nodded. "And why should he give up such power every twelve hours when he could have it for twenty-four? Perhaps this Edge of Souls is the very key he needs, but even that's doubtful."

"This Nyx of yours is definitely in for a trial." Murad laughed. "No one has word of the Soul Edge or its opposite since the late sixteenth century. Even then, it is then said that both swords are silent, locked seemingly in an eternal embrace."

"You've heard of this, too, Murad?" she blinked.

"_Na'am._" It nodded. "When I was but a _walad_, my _'um_ told me the tale of Souls and Swords many times. I had enjoyed hearing them, from the humble blacksmith to the Embrace of Souls itself. Then manhood struck me, quickly. Soon I found myself with a wife and several great children – I had not the time for such tales any longer."

"I process the same." She said. "Much as I'd request to learn more, I've not the time! Nyx is out there, somewhere – he has to pay for this little mess! After that's done, perhaps dear Jennifer would like to have a little _chat!_"

"You're not concerned at all with Souls and Swords?" Salamon asked, gravely. "Even with your little devil's current fascination?"

"Every time Nyx escaped, he's tried the same thing time and time again." She laughed. "He's pathetically predictable, like a moth-bot to a light bulb. He didn't do it then, he couldn't do it then, and he can't do it now…!"

"It is not wise to underestimate your opponent, _'imra'a_." Murad said. "Or surely will you fall!"

"I am certain the XJ9 had shown her that by now!" Amine snorted, bitterly.

"Quiet, Amine!" Back, it frowned.

"Enough tomfoolery!" she said, loudly. "Salamon, you're the one who wants to repair me, yes?"

"Correct." The olden meat-bag nodded.

"You know who I am, what I've done, and bits in miscellany." She said. "I'm the Queen of Cluster Prime and still you want to help me. Why?"

"Do not misunderstand, Vexus." The meat-bag replied. "During the Intergalactic War and well beyond, you had done such terrible things. Almost an entire continent had been wiped out in the midst of a ground assault. If it were simply you, Vexus, I wouldn't lay a finger on you.

"But I'm afraid The Primordial puts things into perspective, practically changed everything when you spoke of the Soul Edge. I'm not interested in your dismissals of the Sword of Salvation, but Nyx has a very different idea – as does an acquaintance of mine, funnily enough! Either way, when push comes to shove, you can't let him live!"

Sharply, she smirked genuine

"I don't intend to."

"We agree then." Salamon said. "Good. We don't have much time – God knows only how far Nyx has traveled. If that wasn't bad enough, the Iraqi Police Service will be in town come tomorrow morning! We have to get you up and running before dawn."

"The sooner I get going, the better." Flecks of stone crunched underfoot as boots carried her for the lengthy table. Rear paneling out ringing, bluntly against, her tympanums caught the metal warping underneath her laying backside. "Let's do this thing – but… this table can hold me, right?"

"You have nothing to fear, Vexus." It tapped its long stick. "In fact, this is the same table on which Salamon built his man-sized robot – the same robot we will be using for parts."

"It doesn't look like I can do a complete ghost transfer as I originally planned." Her head uplifted, Sal made his away around the table for that cornered sheet of plastic. "Still, there are many parts that should be compatible with your hardware."

"We'll find out, won't we?" she took in a breath polite. "Let's do it!"

---

Nyx's head throbbed, painfully somewhat.

With a hand, he pressed at the strange ground, letting the muscle angle him up as gravity took hold of his backside. His back met the ground with a dull thump. Foggy eyes could make out but the tiniest dot bright squarely within a ceiling of black… where he must have fallen through.

Across a nameless desert in a hurried trek, daylight had been upon him, too swift for the night's fleeting taste. An intense crack hazy on the flanking horizon, easily it had taken its toll; crackling spires retreated back inside, hands numb, and gait shaky and wobbly, his thick cape of burlap scratched down, all around his body without a thought. Heavy and rather _warm_, still it kept to its task. Dark hands had been busy fitting the cowl when a mound of loose earth claimed his foot, knee… hip… and all the rest!

"_Oh…_ that SUCKED!" he groaned. "Man, the heck did I end up?"

The darkness, so good though the scratchy folds and patches, he chanced it as he stepped out of the light. Eyes focused, sharply; clarity crystal, textures surrounding were olden and raw, Chronos had pieces eroded smooth or broken off with but a turn of the Zodiac Wheel.

Feet steadfast atop a circular platform, an ornate mosaic encroached by brackish water, gazed upon by large, stony eyes at many different a height; he had landed in some sort of a temple!

The denizens worshiped a little _too_ hard, it seemed; statues fallen and crumbled, the altar cracked deeply with many gash, the place was a complete and utter wreck. Eerily silent, a faint drip but the sound only his ears could catch, the god or gods patron had forsaken this reverence to the worms entire eras ago.

To everything, though, always there was a silver lining…!

"Damp!" he nodded. "And darker than Smytus' ducktail on a moonless night. This should make a good shelter till nightfall. Perhaps, till then, I can figure a way back up this damn roof—!"

Darkness thick, something shifted within in it, quickly – something big! It happened near one of the standing statues.

"Apparently, I'm not alone." He smirked. "Good. I'm in the mood to bat some balls today...!"

The shade atop one of the statues deepened into sheer black, a mass shifting and squirming, a black sliver pushed out from it, swiftly… _eagerly!_

"Looks like I'll have to settle for his." On his heel, he turned around. "You might as well show yourself – I saw you a mile away!"

From the darkness, a voice deep and gravely called.

"Did you now…?" it growled, thick with fury sheer.

"Oh – touchy, are we?" he folded his arms. "Not my fault you've the agility of a fat-ass and flexibility of iron! Stealth and subtlety doesn't seem to suit you. Rather, you prefer to smash your way through the front regardless of danger."

"And YOU'RE in love with the sound of your own voice!" it yelled. "So annoying – I thought the tale of Narcissus was bad!"

"So what do you propose to do about it?" he scoffed. "Ask me to keep quiet?"

"Insolent little worm!" it shouted. "I'll strangle the LIFE OUT OF YOU!!"

"You challenge me?" he laughed. "You're completely out of your league. Now, go back under whatever rocks you crawled out from and let me rest. If you're so damn adamant of being solitary, I promise I'll leave by nightfall. I burn, easily, you see."

"I don't give a DAMN 'BOUT YOU!" it yelled… again. "EXTERMINATE!!"

A terrible shout ubiquitous – the very ruins trembled at the core, loose pebbles and chunks of rock met the stagnant water with many a nasty splash. A hefty boulder would have graced his skull would his defensive spires not have shot out; his arms folded across his scratchy chest, indifferently still.

"DEATH FROM ABOVE!!" it shouted, eagerly – strangely prompt. "Die, WO_RM—!_"

It finished not; his spires did the dirty work for him, plucking the beast out from gravity's firm hold. Something heavily rang on the piece of alter behind him; he paid it little mind as his extensions brought the thing up, over his head, and before him, squarely.

Eight feet tall and impossibly broad, a giant of a creature, he had the shade to thank for his spires' renewed strength. Its skin a pigment truly bizarre, it was a shade deep of maroon of all colors. Half its face was hidden by a painful mask, thick metal formed around its cheeks, atop the nose bridge and around the back of the head; the mouth hinted by crossed threads on the thick veil of weathered leather. A strange scar had been cut across its huge chest, a grungy yellow equal to the patch plastered on its crown.

"Little WHELP!" huge hands struggled against the spires around its shoulders. "Put me DOWN!!"

He grinned.

"As you wish!"

A flick simple of the extensions, the giant found itself fleetingly high in the air before the spires flicked him onto the circular ground before him. It tried to shake some sense back into its head – amusing, almost!

"Damn…!" it groaned. "I messed up!"

"Challenging the very darkness of the night?" he chuckled. "Yeah, I guess you did. Tell me, creature of maroon, is this a common occurrence for you or but a fluke?"

"A FLUKE, I say!" it cocked its head, blankly glaring at him with eyes dead of creamy white. "It won't happen again! Must… exterminate!"

"No, I don't think you'll be doing that till the next sucker falls through this hole." He said. "Come nightfall, I'm out of here so don't you worry. The Soul Edge isn't going to find itself—!"

"You know of the Sword of Salvation!?" it blinked. "_How!?_"

"So I'm not alone as I once thought!" he put a finger to his chin, thoughtfully. "Excellent."

"Answer THE QUESTON!" it shouted. "How do you know of it…?"

"Or what will you do?" he frowned. "Glare me to death? Ha – you're in no position to make demands of me! You don't even have your weapon! But if you must know, let us say that a newfound rival group is questing after this Soul Edge, as well. That is where I first heard word of it. I must find it before they do. But tell me, creature of maroon, why do you hold interest in this legendary weapon?"

"Oh – I think it'd look really good in the vomitorium!" those milky eyes shifted, as though they were rolling. "Never mind I was built solely for that damned sword!"

"A golem?" he blinked. "Who'd have thought…?"

"Here's an idea!" that blank gaze true narrowed, harshly. "Why don't you go ask my buddy Kunpaetku? Give me a chance, I'll send you to Tartarus to meet him and the rest of Fygul Cestemus!"

"Oh, never you mind then." He shook his head. "I'm not _that_ interested, considering he's darker truly than I. Although, I am a bit curious with you."

"About _me?_" red lids batted, incredulous.

"You, indeed." He smiled. "Though familiar with a similar tale, I'm quite new at the tale of Souls and Swords. I find myself after the very Soul Edge itself! The fates concerned not with the mere idea, perhaps this ultimate sword is the very key I find myself needing."

"And what if I don't want to help you?" it growled. "What if I'd rather crush your head like a grape?"

"So violent, so angry are we!" he indifferently folded his arms. "I guess that's what happens when you've been trapped here, indefinitely. I know the feeling, believe me. Lost in space, shot for the nearest star where I would have met my final moments in an inferno of utter disgrace. I should be thankful to little Vexus for her little intervention, come to think."

"Wait!" the ogre exclaimed. "This is one of those learn'd words, isn't it? Doesn't it start with an 'M' or something?"

"No…." his brow kinked. "How long have you been down here again?"

"Depends…!" it blinked. "I just got up. It was a nice nap till I woke up!"

"Okay." He nodded. "What year do you believe it to be?"

"_Uh_ – let's see here…." The crown's bizarre splatter, it scratched it with a rather thick digit. "Looking for the White Giant, carry that one over and… oh yeah – it's about 1591!"

He blinked, disbelievingly!

"And… how old do you believe you are?" he asked, suspiciously.

"About seven, maybe eight." Replied it. "Call it a 'birth', if you will. The first time I opened my eyes was in 1584!"

"Man, you are out of touch." He shook his head. "_Really_ out of touch – it's this planet's 2074th year in existence, if I'm not mistaken! I'd have thought you, too, had fallen in and knocked your head against something, but your garments…! So old and practically threadbare, they do vouch for you, indeed."

"Oh really, Oh Learn'd One…?" With a snort, the creature of maroon mocked. "What in Tartarus makes you so damn sure what era this is?"

He shrugged, simply.

"Unlike you, my large, maroon friend, I just dropped in from the outside."

"Oh yeah."

"Need I elaborate?" he asked.

"Never mind." That plastered spot shook. "Just answer me this question, Oh Learn'd One."

"Shoot."

It blinked again.

"Shoot?" perplexed, its orbs of milky white shifted. "Shoot what? Fygul Cestemus never stashed any cannons here – forget Kunpaetku for a minute!"

"Such a funny boy, aren't you?" his eyes rolled.

"Kulutues can show YOU '_funny_', you fool!" it snarled, rabidly. "If I can find Kulutues, that is – but when I do—!"

"And I thought scatterbrained Krackus was bad enough...!" He moaned. "I'm a busy person, Mr. Golem, as you could probably guess. So could you please get on with it?"

"That's just it!" it yelled. "You who dared challenge great Astaroth and lives to tell! Who in Tartarus ARE _YOU!?_"

"Astaroth…." He repeated, intently. "Is that what this 'Kunpaetku' named you?"

"After a damn _goddess,_ of all the names to choose!" it spat, as though it were bitter in its lacy mouth. "Fertility and sex, my ass! Why couldn't it be something like Adonis or Marduk? Perhaps Kunpaetku was the funny boy, after all! I should've crushed him when I had the chance, but no…! I had to be obsessed with that damn White Giant! A lot of good that turned out to be…!"

"'White Giant'?" he curiously blinked.

"Never YOU mind, stranger!" with a grumbling grunt, it pushed up to its knees. "Now, what of you? You now know my name, so what's yours?"

"Over your namesake, you should not be so miffed." He said. "Brutish and utterly destructive, this crumbling shrine but a testament to the great, terrible work of your brooding hands. I know a thing or two concerning Earthly tales and legends, Astaroth. The goddess Ashtart was one of terrible warfare, as well! I believe your moniker suits you well, a true Grand Duke of Hell… or Tartarus – whatever you prefer."

"Enough pomp!" behind that wrapped veil, it surely frowned, strongly. "Tell me your name before I pound it out of you!"

"I am a Primordial!" Up, he grandly threw his arms. "The very darkness of the night itself, I was born of the great Chaos! My offspring are many and telling! On my home planet of Cluster Prime, I am the great and terrible Nyx – ever consuming, ever enveloping! For when comes the day when the proverbial Ushas rosy fingers fail to reach across the sky, surely I will be there to see everything end!"

The golem of maroon blinked… again!

"But…!" it stuttered. "You're a _guy…!_"

"As are you, but did it stop your Kunpaetku?" back, he frowned. "No, it did not! I did not choose this name, thought I believe it was not within the fates to name me, meaninglessly. Often I did wonder why my power surged with the dark, and now I know why! I was meant to be more than yet another progeny of a coupling highly profane and elicit!"

"Uh… what?" it said. "And do you know a god named Palgaea, by chance! I'd like to show that piece of crap a thing or two…!"

"Never mind." He dismissed. "Well, if you don't mind, I believe it's best if we part ways. I've quite the journey ahead – I'm sure my rivals are far ahead, even farther if I don't leave now."

"Wait!" it held out one of its huge palms.

He merely replied.

"What?"

"If you're looking for the Soul Edge, you'd better let me tag along!" rather than ask, it demanded, forcefully. "It's not like I have anything to do. There's nothing for me here – not anymore!"

"Yes…!" Rolling his eyes once over the ruin, he affirmed with a nod. "You guaranteed that!"

It snarled.

"So you wish to join me in this little quest for the 'ultimate' sword." He said. "I have already defeated you, Astaroth, with little or no hardship. Tell me, what more do you have to offer? Why shouldn't I leave you here in this dark, dank pit of the arcane?"

"The Soul Edge and I are almost one in the same!" it claimed, loudly. "I can track it – _feel_ its presence. I don't know how or why, but the worms up there will definitely know when its close!"

"So you're nothing more than a bloodhound?" he blinked. "Come now, you surely can offer a bit more than that."

"How about my axe upside _your HEAD!?_" back, it shouted.

"Yes…." He put a finger to his chin. "Your axe…!"

Darkness abundant throughout, he could feel himself extend with graceful ease. Several wormed out his back, through the burlap, down for the piece of flooring behind. A feeling wooden, a heavy scraping, the balls of his feet uplifted but a passing moment before it was comfortable in his snaky grasp. Damocles envious as he passed it over his head without a second thought, down before scrupulous eyes.

A battle-axe. Thick wood heavy and segmented, the handle's belly and back no more than a straight shaft a little shorter than he; the axe's eye was just as wide. The bit of heel arced gracefully down to grimy, caked point just like the bit's toe. The cutting edge stained and jagged with plenty of chips, it had cut through a plethora of battles. Should the golem have had the drop on him, the thick poll would have surely bashed his skull in, messily.

Battered and well olden, it would serve him rather well!

"Yes." He nodded. "I'll take upon your offering of your axe. I could always use some extra _oomph_ to get the job done."

Crimson lids batted, aghast!

"My _AXE!?_" it yelled. "WHAT ABOUT ME!?"

He sighed.

"Yes, _you!_" his palm met his crown. "I was being metaphoric! Do I have to spell out everything for you?"

"E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G!" it said. "See – I can spell!"

It laughed; he groaned aloud.

"This is going to be a _long_ journey…!"

---

Abruptly, Bradley spoke up.

"You know what's funny, Jen?" he said.

"_No…._" she blinked. "Should I…?"

"We've only been on this rocking tub for 'bout little over a week now." He put his knuckles against his hips, casually. "It's strange. It feels like we've been on it for over a month, at least. I almost forgot what dry land feels like – let alone looks like!"

"I acknowledge that!" Jen nodded.

A crazy week, it had been when upon the intense training Solomon had not. The guy was a workaholic, exercising body and mind alike when he was not picking a sparing match between Bradley and she, even little Tucker. She wasn't sure how many more nicks and scrapes Kafizel could scrape on her paneling. The reading required had not been as tedious as she once had processed.

Watkins' scribbled notes an overview, the tomes were much more complete. Swords and Souls, it was a tapestry wondrous and fanciful woven tightly as needlepoint by a pair of ultimate swords: an obsession paralyzing that froze ancient peoples from across the globe in the midst of coming and going. Transcending history and the world, it certainly was the case of she and her motley crew.

Souls and Swords upon everyone's mind, blunt and impulsive rather was Bradley's villanelle.

"Wasn't Karaoke Night the best, Jen!" he grinned. "Though I wonder what was Tuck's deal. He's my brother, and even I didn't know he was into metal!"

A television jingle no more than a minute long, never before had her tympanums been upon pounded by an arrangement malady!

"_Do you folks like COFFEE…!?_" she mocked, hoarsely with a laugh.

"_Real COFFEE—_" with a snort, Brad took his shot, "_from the hills… of – COLUMBIA…!?_"

They both shared a hearty laugh.

"God, what was Tuck _on_ that night…?"

"Probably, some of that Duncan Hills stuff!" she sniggered. "I'd read all other brands went out of business shortly after that massacre at Batsfjord."

"Hey – if you sign the pain waiver, then it comes with the territory!" Brad folded his arms. "You'd think the band falling from the sky in a giant, steel box was warning enough, but no…! You just had to see boiling vats of coffee and cream, too!"

"Safe to say we won't be having any cups of blackened blood aboard the ship." She said. "Not that I'm dying for a cup of it, anyway."

"Speaking of Scandinavia," Brad said, "where exactly are we off to first? Rest of Spain, France, or England maybe?"

"That's not really Scandinavia, Brad." She said. "But if you'd like to know, we're immediately heading for Germany. We're starting right where Watkins' notes left off – the Embrace of Souls – right at the ruined castle on the Rhine!"

"Do you think that's where either of the swords are?" he asked.

"No." she shook her head. "All fragments discovered there've been scattered throughout the world, thanks to academia. But since we've Solomon and been reading his books…."

"We might find something the crews have passed over!" he nodded, deeply. "Great idea, but shouldn't we go after the scattered shards, firstly?"

"You saw what happened at my place, Brad, with _one _shard." She said. "What'd happen if there were more shards around? What if I freak out again without a faucet in sight? I can't let that happen. I don't think even Sol or Shell could knock me out of another fit…."

Her hand met her left arm, protectively.

"What if I do something to you?" she said. "Or Tuck, or Shell…? I couldn't exist with myself if—"

"Enough, Jen." She rattled, weakly as fleshy hands gave her a simple shake. "We got your back, Jen – some more than others…!"

The toe of his loafer tapped against the floor, intently.

"We've been for you since Tuck crashed the ball through your front door." He said. "Shell's been here since you saved him in shop class – even after he got back from space! Solomon's been… well, we're not too sure 'bout Solomon yet – not after the museum escapade, anyway."

"Yeah." She chuckled, softly. "Tuck actually thinks the baldy is this 'Zasalamel' character, of all people."

"Tuck told me that, too." He chuckled, too. "I think that's the last of Sol's books he's ever going to read. From now on, it's from the reading list… like _Of Mice and Men_, _Lord of the Flies_, or _Grapes of Wrath_ – you know, the classics!"

"_Yuck!_" she spat. "Talk 'bout prepubescent abuse…! Several chapters of that garbage and I found myself on standby for three hours!"

"Tuck's got to be broken in sometime." He shrugged. "Better now than later. Besides, it builds character and teaches what life's really about."

"An exercise in futility which always ends in death?" she mused with a smirk.

"The very same!" he grinned—

A sudden bleat, the PA had switched on with a blow of coarse static. Habitually, her head turned for that speaker hanging in the cabin's corner.

"Good morning, passengers." Greeted the coarse voice. "This is your captain, Adrian Casque, speaking. Currently, we are but fifty knots away from our destination and we should be making port within a couple hours. For the Wakeman Party, please ensure you've collected all personal belongings prior to your leaving."

"A couple hours?" With a blink, she recited.

"Recent reports show there is a rather dense fog bank directly ahead… which we are just about to enter… now!" the captain announced. "To prevent cases of 'man overboard', I advise all passengers to please stay inside the ship. Venture outside only if you must – smoke breaks not included! That means you, Jacques!"

"Fog??" Bradley's eyes crossed. "But its frigging summer, for Pete's sake! I'm checking this out."

"But, Brad…!"

Her protest a whisper upon deafened ears, the slatted door graced not Bradley's backside as he hurried through. Sound of loafers was a diminuendo, fading into vacant oblivion as breeze blew past another closing door. Numbers dropping at her right, her vision noted a sudden drop in temperature in digital green.

"Damn it, Brad…!" she groaned. "Do you always have to run off?"

Heavy boots clomped upon the floorboards, crossly; the slatted door nicked her lifting heel as she brushed her way past. Taking the hard right, upon her was the door of solid core, momentarily as a hand shoved it away – the digital green counting down just a little more.

Past the door, immediately, she was lost within shifting wisps of cloudy gray – a gray-out complete! To the left, to the right, barely could she make out the darker siding of the ship. Ever enveloping, chokingly thick, it was lucky the toe of her boot found a railing post in midst of a hesitant stride.

"Sea fog??" she blinked. "But… it's not even the afternoon yet!"

"Man, have you seen anything this thick, Jen?"

Brad's voice, she could place it somewhere nearby, perhaps down the railing a little ways—

Something made her shoulder _clang_; she jumped with a yelp!

"Whoa – no need to _freak out!_"

Boards scratched with a turn of her heel. Brad's head had sunk in between his black, woolen shoulders, in the middle of a shrug, as it were.

"_Brad…!_" she growled. "Don't EVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN!!"

"I… was almost floorboard road-kill?" he sheepishly smiled.

"And _then some…!_" she snarled. "What do you think you're doing out here, Brad? You heard the captain! We have to stay inside! We're still in the riptide, from what I'd seen. What if one of us goes overboard? I _can't_ swim! Hell – I'd be lucky if I didn't sink to the ocean floor!"

"Will you turn down the drama, Jenny?" he hugged himself, firmly with an equal scowl. "The ship's slowed to a crawl, and I'd be a monkey's uncle if the Krusts' boat didn't have the best sonar money can buy. Nothing's going to happen out here, Jen. We're safe… though it is a bit _nippy _out here…!"

"_Really…?_" she smirked, sharply.

Brad groaned a crescendo.

"I'll take your word for it—!"

The boards rocked, rattled on their ribs through a crackling explosion of snapping wood. Boards underfoot angled up behind – her boots uplifted to the hinged balls but her weight kept her footing true. Bradley not as fortunate, the rust head halfway over the rail for the churning, dark water if she had not shot him a hand at the last minute—

The worst had passed as quick as it came, no more than a gentle motion toying at her gyroscopes. Digits curled firm around the loose collar, she set Brad down to his rear with a thud.

"Say 'Uncle', _monkey!_" she frowned.


	15. Chapter XV

XV

Within the fog's shifting wisps, the ship seemed to have run aground, suddenly.

"You okay, Brad?" she had to ask.

"Apart from being lost at sea," the rust head took in a cool breath, letting it out in a fleeting puff, "yeah, I'm okay. Where're the others?"

"Judging by vibrations, sounds, and time, it seems we've been hit somewhere on the port bow." Sets of digits smoothed down her cheeks, gingerly scraping them. "Seeing how people act, I wager a lot of them went to go see what happened."

"In this fog!?" Brad hopped to his feet. "We're lucky we didn't go overboard ourselves! What 'bout Shell, or Sol – or Tuck even!? Mom and Dad will kill me if something happens to him!"

"Tympanums caught not a splash or scream in conjunction, Brad." Palms on his shoulders, she gave him a quick shake. "Tuck's fine, most likely."

"Knowing that little squirt, he's probably on his way to see what's up!" Brad brushed off her gentle clasp. "We got to get there – and fast!"

"Okay."

A buzz of a whir that of power drills, her pigtails securely fixed atop her head. A heavy shift, a flash bright… the dismal view all around was just a little more clear. The fog close dissolved, thick wisps wisely kept their distance. The cabin's cream siding, the boarded walk, and the railing, more became known as her boots took turns in front for a couple feet.

"Man, think those headlamps are bright enough…?" Away, Bradley winced.

"We're heading to the port bow, the foredeck." She dismissed without a process secondary. "I'm certain that's where Tuck went. I'll take the point – you can take my hand."

Outwardly, she reached; Brad trembled in his loafers as fleshy digits wrapped around her own.

"Not the warm handshake I'd hoped." He shook.

"Quit your whining." She forwardly took a heavy step. "Let's go!"

---

"What is going on, Captain Casque!?"

For several minutes past, Adrian Casque loomed over his charts and notes, keenly. Papers many littered the table with the backlit, nautical map; radar maintenance, weather reports, even articles pertaining to civil unrest, there was not a thing he poured over that should have led him astray!

Yet here was he… with the miffed owner but breathing, heavily down his neck.

"I asked you a question, Captain Casque!" the Krust patriarch yelled. "What is going on!? What did we _hit!?_"

"Will you calm down, Mr. Krust?" wisely, he frowned at his notes. "Even I don't know what happened—!"

"_YOU_ don't know!?" the suit yelled. "You're the captain – and you DON'T _KNOW!?_ How much am I paying you again…?"

"Not enough with an earful everyday!" he said, bluntly. "Look, Northwest Spain's a rather rocky place to go to port. We probably glanced a rock or something, but this fog…!"

"What about it?" the suit pressed.

"In all my years of sailing, I've never run across sea fog this thick!" the ridge of his hand rubbed a sore eye. "I don't know why, but there's just something… foreboding about it – like some evil's lying in wait, or something…!"

"Below the thunders of the upper deep;" Sinisterly, the dark suit just _had_ to chant, "Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea. His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep; it sleepeth: faintest sunlight flee. About his shadowy sides; above him swell huge sponges of millennial growth and height; and far away into the sickly light, from many a wondrous grot and secret cell. Unnumbered and enormous polypi winnow with giant arms the slumbering green. There hath he lain for ages, and will lie battening upon huge sea worms in his sleep, until the latter fire shall heat the deep; then once by man and angels to be seen, in roaring he shall rise and on the surface die!

"Summon… the _KRAKEN!!_"

White swathed arms folded; he snorted unammused.

"You love Tennyson, too much!" he frowned. "Should've never told you 'bout that damn tale in the first place, I swear."

"And you should've watched where you're going with _my_ yacht!" back, the dark suit frowned. "Fair's fair…!"

"I _did_ watch where I'm going with _your_ boat!" he up threw his hands. "Nothing went off, no sensors bleeped – it's like that damn rock came out of nowhere!"

"And just what do you propose to do 'bout it, Captain Casque?" the suit pressed.

"I had a word with the First Mate before you walked in." he said. "I told him to put together a small team to investigate. They should report in any minute now—"

"Captain Casque." crackled from the handheld upon the backlit table. "Captain Casque!"

"Speak of the devil…!" with an outstretched hand, he blindly up scooped the radio. Depressed his finger upon the "T" button, his mouth met the microphone, quickly. "This is Captain Casque, what do you have to report, sailor?"

"We've assembled for the inspection at the port bow," the radioman replied, "about to descend the hull of the ship. But upon preliminary inspection, there's something you certainly need to know."

"What is it…?" he asked with a furrowing brow.

"It appears we have not run around upon a rock – nor any geological structure at all!" the sailor exclaimed. "It appears we've collided with a shipwreck."

"A shipwreck?" he blinked. "Why didn't they try to contact us?"

"Probably because whatever crew it had, they've long since abandoned ship." The sailor said. "Even if it did, I don't think they could radio even if they wanted!"

"Why's that?"

"Well, Captain…" the crewman said with a drawl, "did the Spanish Armada have radios on their old ships of the line?"

Silence and nothing more; he blinked incredulous.

"You heard me!" the crewman yelled. "This isn't some tug boat, Captain Casque! We've been broadsided by a haggard-ass Spanish warship… what's left of it, anyway. Looks like its bow cracked off and drifted away…! I just heard a sailor say he sees it on the starboard side!"

"What the hell's going on, Captain?" the Krust asked.

His cap met the floor with a definite tap when shaky fingers slid beneath and up behind the small bill. His heart skipped more than a couple of beats. Where did he lose his bottle of aspirin this time!?

"It can't be!" he rubbed his clammy crown, fiercely. "Could it…?"

---

Upon floorboards hidden and damp, a stroll of five minutes' time took double, at least! Headlights had helped, little as they did, although they merely brightened the clouds in her POV. Paths typically narrow and each step as slippery wet as the last, it was a miracle her foot fell upon nothing short of a sturdy stride.

If only Bradley had been so fortunate.

"Are we almost there, Jen?" at her waist, his tugs were as annoying as Tucker's. "Why's this taking so long…?"

"Quit moaning, Brad." A buzz within her head while her eyes took a lap around the sockets. "It takes as long as it takes! Besides, you won't have to worry about a shower with all this moisture, at least."

"I knew I should've packed a poncho…!" he moaned. "Tuck – you're in for the whooping of your _life_ if you're out here—!"

A crackle of static, vacant and distant, the PA system went active once more.

"This is Captain Casque speaking." The good captain announced, promptly, "Jennifer Wakeman of the Wakeman Party, please report to the foredeck-port bow, immediately. The crew is in need of your assistance. That is all."

Beyond the far wisp fleeting, the cabin's siding ended, abruptly; a smirk tugged at her thin lips.

"Well, you heard the captain!" Brad said. "What're we waiting for?"

"Don't sweat it, Brad." She simply replied.

"Why's that?"

"A couple more feet, and we're already here!"

Boards abruptly cut, others arcing to a central point, they had finally arrived. The dew beaded upon the rich, smooth stain, a scuff nowhere in sight, Tucker had done an excellent job – as though her wide soles never touched upon them, thankfully. The members of crew paid little mind, grouping by the waist-high railing on the port side; the attention was found elsewhere, just a little past the thick, shifting veil of gray.

A mass immense of gray a deeper shade, something was definitely there…!

"Tuck!" Brad called. "TUCK…! Are you _here!?_"

The vacant breeze and nothing more, some of the sailors glanced him back a look bizarre. Many shrugged, necks turning back for the thinly veiled mystery while a couple kept upon their peering gaze. A single pair of beady eyes batted.

"Hey, wait a minute." The sailor said. "Aren't you the Wakeman girl?"

She nodded.

"Yes, that's right." She called. "I believe the Captain just called for me. You require some 'assistance', right?"

"Good." With hiking boots quick, the sailor closed the distance with an open hand at point. "I'm Jacques Dominic, this vessel's First Mate."

"GRUXJ9." She took the calloused hand with a pinch, incredibly weak. "But I prefer Jenny."

"Whatever you wish, Jennifer." The man smeared his hand down his pants' leg, firmly; a frown tugged at her lips. "Forgive the demeanor, but it seems the ship has run aground. No warning, no radar, not a damn thing. It's like this wreck came out of nowhere and—"

"Wait a sec." In chimed Brad. "Did you just say 'wreck'…?"

The man swept back his hand in gesture.

"Have a look for yourself." Eyes shifting not by even the fog, he said it, gravely.

Underfoot, boards stridently creaked as she made her way close to the huddling bunch. Many pairs of eyes batting incredulous, a few hands atop clammy crowns in utter disbelief, with every step she carefully took, the mystery slowly let itself be shown.

Crafted wood centuries old, each timber horribly thick with rot, many planks jutted out from the churning white froth like a spire. A spire as well! Out it pointed at the Adrian II with a raw, ragged tip, bedecked by a couple pairs of logs projecting perpendicular. The peak rather thick, broad and bulky too much to be of intent, it was away but a camel's hair from arcing into the sea itself!

A wicked skull vacantly gazing into the churning froth below but the crowning touch, her digits nervously tapped against her backside.

"Half a deck, a poop cabin, and half a mizzenmast!" Bradley said. "It looks like something out of the Old Spanish Armada!"

"I haven't seen a ship like this out to sea… _ever!_" the First Mate said. "Nothing outside of the restored models back at port, anyway."

"What's it doing out here?" she asked. "Shouldn't someone have come on this thing by now? What about the news? Any news about an old shipwreck around these parts?"

"No." the mate slowly shook his head. "But there have been rumors going around concerning a sort of ghost ship of the Spanish coasts – especially around Valencia!"

"A ghost ship?" she blinked. "Like this?"

"Sort of." Carried on did the man. "Very recently, there've been a string of reports and distress calls originating from off the coasts – ending abruptly no more than fifteen minutes later. When either a patrol unit of the _Armada Espanola _or a nearby ship heeds the call…."

"What?" Brad asked. "What happened?"

"The distressed crew!" the mate said. "Most of them dead while others were simply missing – lost at sea! The distressed vessel a maddening wreck, yet all valuable items had been left untouched or practically smashed. A similar incident happened no more than week ago, most of the crew found dead or missing like before—"

"But you found survivors?"

"Only _one_ survivor." The mate scratched at his lengthy stubble. "Well in his sixties, the man was a mess when a fishing ship happened on the fresh wreck. So far gone was he, the man nearly ripped his own ear straight off! He kept on babbling about the attacker."

"What'd he say?" Brad asked.

"'The pirate!'" the sailor rubbed at his brow. "'Beware the _pirate – _the DREADED _PIRATE!!_'"

"'Dreaded Pirate'…?" she blinked. "In this day and age…?"

"I don't particularly believe it myself, but I'd rather not discount the possibility." The mate shrugged. "Either way, we need to get this ship to port before dark if we want to keep Mr. Krust appeased. Shore's still a little ways off, so I suggest you simply _push_ the ship out from this wreck and maybe take care of any patchwork."

"Sorry," she held out her hand, "but I don't process that'll work."

Beady eyes blinked.

"What?" the mate said. "What do you mean? Don't you possess the strength of a million men or something?"

"1,000,070, to be precise." She smiled, sheepishly. "But I honestly don't think I could do what you're asking. Sure, I can lift a flying saucer – or three – when I'm on the ground. From there, it's a sheer matter of momentum when the jets kick on. But this ship is huge! I can certainly fly in this fog and put my hands against the stern, but I've nothing solid to push against. Even with a jet-powered head start, I'll probably shoot straight through the hull before this ship will move even an inch. Besides, I don't think the Krusts will be happy when they find their yacht a little more than scuffed."

"So we're _stuck_ here!?" Brad whined.

"I didn't say that, did I, Brad?" she stated. "No, I did not!"

"Then what do you suggest?" the mate frowned. "Call Triple-A?"

"No need for sass!" she frowned back. "How 'bout this? I'll jump on the wreck and have a look-see at what we're caught on. Maybe with a well-placed blast, the yacht should be able to pass through safely."

"Yes…." The mate nodded, thoughtfully. "That should work!"

"Are you sure about this, Jen?" Brad asked standard.

"With my instruments, it should be no problem." She smiled. "Besides, you can tag along in case I get a little _too_ close to the water."

"Okay," the head of spiked rust bobbed, eagerly, "I'll be right back!"

Whilst turning on his loafers, Brad graced her his thin backside about to jog away. He stopped, suddenly within midst of a rather large stride – just as she wanted. Her digits seized not the rear of his woolen collar for nothing!

"_Hey—!_" the boy gagged. "What…?"

"Nope!" she shook her head. "You're not going anywhere without me!"

"Wait a minute!" Brad yelped a protest; it fell upon deafened tympanums. "I just need a few things. It'll only take a sec…!"

"Sorry," she smirked, "your stuff's staying right in the cabin! Sorry, Armor Lad…!"

The mate hissed with a grin, an out-whipped finger accented by a horrid replica of a cracking whip. The huddled crew let out a jovial cackle.

"We know who's got the remote in this couple…!" a hidden sailor laughed quite loud.

Brad seethed, bitterly.

"Before we cast off, have any of you seen a little boy running around?" she asked. "About three feet tall in a red shirt with a single, black stripe? Black hair, dark eyes…?"

"Actually, yes." The mate nodded. "He was out here looking at what we knocked into. One of the guys over here hurried him back inside, so don't you worry."

"If I'm not mistaken," in, one of the crewmen chimed, "I think I scooted him inside the ship's galley. Plenty of food and drink, I wouldn't have to worry 'bout him, too much."

"He'd better not be taking samples of my Ketel One!" another exclaimed. "Sheer luck I found that bottle in the first place!"

"He connects alcohol with punishment." Brad took in a breath. "Mom always making him taste scotch whenever he screws up. I'd look after the fountain machine, if I were you."

"Alright." The First Mate up-tossed his hands. "We wasted enough time. I might send some men to look after your brother, Bradley. Just get down there and see what you can do. I'll leave these guys here should you need anything."

"Just cast off – and that's it!?" one of the sailors yelled. "You see how old that ship is? God only knows what kind of stuff's still inside…!"

"Weapons, artifacts, all sorts of knickknacks…!" another one keenly listed. "And most importantly…!"

The men shouted, promptly at once, all hearts betrayed by a single, simple word; the monster of an emerald gaze had reared its ugly head once more.

"TREASURE!!"

"I should've known." The mate shook his head.

"As should I." A buzzing as her eyes took a lap around the sockets. "So predictable, so reliable…!"

"Perhaps to quell the men's fears, could you do a quick sweep of the poop cabin as well?" the mate just had to ask. "Nothing lengthy or fancy, a once-around will be just fine."

"Oh – I'm not certain…!" she scraped a digit against an eye; back came the extension rather wet. "I'm moving stiffly. With this fog, I might rust to a stop if I'm out much longer. What do you think, Brad…?"

Beside himself, Bradley counted up one finger at a time.

"New skateboard, new video-game console, perhaps that new sweater vest I saw at the department store…!"

"I process I'm the odd man out." She sighed. "I'll have a look around – but _no_ promises! With that and the ship, it shouldn't take longer than half an hour. Any longer than that, come and get me."

"Will do." The first mate nodded. "Now get going."

Wood scraping as she turned on her wide heel, a nameless crewman just had to speak.

"Time is _money_, you know…!"

The huddled crew laughed once more; her palm met her crown, irritably, gravity taking its time dragging it down her face.

"Well, he is right, Jenny—!"

In, Brad chimed not; her seizing grip would not let him.

"What the—!?" Out, Brad gagged. "_Hey…!_"

"It's for horses, Brad." She frowned. "Now, let's go!"

---

Stomach known through a churn strained, Tuck felt rather hungry.

The galley of five stars, there was something to be had, certainly! Tables neatly prim and proper in the galley ornate, not a utensil nor a flute out of place, and many a pleated, tablecloth fold bore not a single wrinkle. The backlights bright a sharp contrast to the permeating warm glow, the bar forced itself upon many patrons past and present at the architect's whim. Instruments acoustic useless on the small corner stage, they leaned against the corner in lackadaisical wait for their handlers' return.

An electric guitar, a curly ram's horn, a waxy piece of wood, a wraparound tuba, and even a violin…!

"Talk 'bout one serious noisemaker!" Tuck shook his head. "Who the heck would want to listen to that…?"

"You'd actually be surprised." A voice nasal pierced through the sound of a rattling knob. "People are fickle creatures, Tucker. What's one man's noisemaker is another's symphony."

In from the right strolled a pair of jeans, casually, the waist hidden by parted folds of thick maroon. From in between, a simple shirt of bleached white peeked, openly. Mouth a perpetual grin of snaggleteeth, the teen of yellowed skin gazed at him with large eyes of dark brown.

"Sheldon." Tuck said. "Thank God you're here…!"

"It's about that sudden jolt, isn't it?" back, the teen asked. "We're not going to sink, if that's what you're worried about. We just run aground on something, that's all. Jenny's taking care of it, even as I speak."

He shook his head.

"No, that's not it!" he said.

"It's not?" Shell blinked. "Then what is it? You're not hurt, are you?"

"No." he said. "I've something really important to ask you. The fate of my whole little world depends upon it!"

"Okay…." Shell shot him a look suspicious. "Shoot."

Lids parted wide, a grin toothy pulled his lips apart.

"…Could you make me a sandwich?"

Again Shell batted his eyes.

"A _sandwich?_" the teen moaned.

"Yeah, a sandwich!" He affirmed, swiftly with a nod. "You know – the food item with two pieces of bread, between which are several layers of meat, vegetables, cheese with condiments, sauces, and other accompaniments!"

"I know what a sandwich is!" Shell growled. "Don't you talk to me like that, or you can make your speciality _food item_ by yourself!"

"Aw – come _on…!_" back, he moaned. "I can't do it by myself! Mom won't even let me touch a butter knife back home."

"Alright – fine!" Maroon-swathed arms folded, crossly. "Just what's the magic word…?"

"Uh… '_Now!_ '" He shrugged.

Back, Shell's head cocked; the wide mandible dropped as the teen took in a large, yawning breath.

"Wow, I'm feeling pretty tired." Noted Sheldon. "I think I'll have myself a good… _long_… powernap! Come and wake me when we reach port, okay?"

"Okay – _okay…!_" Tuck held out his palms. "Please…? May I please have a sandwich? Ruben, BLT, or P-B-and-J – I don't care. I just need something…!"

A yellow digit scratched at the bulbous nose in thought.

"Well, since you put it so nicely…!"

A shrug and a sigh simple, Sheldon made his way around the bar's ridiculously tall countertop. Drinks and mixers a plethora of bottles and colors, the teen paid the backlit shelves no mind as past he walked. The swinging door touched not his rear as he pushed it aside, losing himself within the galley as well-greased hinges brought the door back into the frame.

"I wonder what Jenny's doing...!" Little shoulders burned as he struggled up the nearby barstool. "Or Brad, for that matter. Probably, he got knocked into the drink when we hit… whatever it was. Can barely swim, Jenny's probably got her hands full."

"I don't even want to think 'bout that scenario!" Shell called. "I read her schematics, but I don't recall Dr. Wakeman had her waterproofed."

"Aw – come on!" atop his seat, finally, he replied with an equal shout. "With all Jenny's gizmos and contraptions, you honestly think Wakeman didn't do it?"

"Even if she did, she's still a robot!" Shell argued. "Full metal throughout, she'll drop to the ocean floor quicker than a millstone. It'd probably take days before she could climb up a continental shelf – and more simply trying to dry out! And those repairs…! What if they don't hold?"

"Your Jenny will be fine." His fist on the bar's top dismissed with a bang. "Now, where's my food?"

"Whoever makes your food can make you ill, Tuck!" the teen yelled. "Complaints to the chef can be hazardous to your health, after all."

The swinging door outwardly easing, a pair of yellow hands carried a bread plate by maroon arms; his tongue peeked from between his lips at the sheer sight of bread – white bread without a crumb of crust! The door eased shut after Sheldon pushed through, the plate scraped the ebony before it stopped, abruptly at his upturned hand. Lettuce forest green fluffed between the bread while between a pair of brown strips peeked; this would be the sandwich for which to die!

_Not like I've a choice…!_

Bacon crunched, lettuce ripped while something left his tongue wet with a lingering, bitter salt. The generous mayonnaise soothed his buds.

"Got… to _love_ – the classics!" Words struggled through his chew.

"Alright, little bud." Shell strongly leaned before his plate. "What'll it be? Cola, diet cola, sparkling water, or what…?"

"I'm not little anymore!" he frowned. "I'm a big kid now!"

"You wear Pull-Ups." Snaggleteeth grinned. "I know…!"

He seethed so strong, a crumb almost found its way into the wrong pipe!

"No need to choke." Shell said. "Any drink with your precious sandwich?"

"You know what." He rubbed his chin by the back of his hand. "I think I'll have myself a vodka martini with an orange twist – _shaken _not stirred – made with classic Ketel One. Oh – and put an olive in it! Yeah, olive…!"

"Whoa!" Shell eased back. "Hold on there, Tuck! You're not twenty-one, and I'll be damned if I get an earful from Brad over it! Besides, what the heck do you know 'bout serious drinks?"

"Serious as a Bloody Mary with V8 and the same vodka." He nodded, deeply. "You'd be surprised what I know – and I bet I can drink you under the table, easily!"

"I'm not playing your game, Tuck." Shell folded his maroon arms. "No liquored drinks for you. It's simple cola or water for you!"

"Ah – HA!" He yelled, his pointing finger the exclamation. "You _know_ I can drink your sorry butt under the table. A couple Irish car-bombs in you and you'll be having a nap on the bar top within the hour!"

"That does it!"

On a heel, Sheldon spun around with exclaim. A bottle nameless within a seizing grasp, it met the bar top with a resounding bang – as though, by it, the teen meant something. Meant what, Tucker had not the slightest idea.

"_You're_ going down, little boy!" Shell snarled with a couple, tiny glasses in the opposite hand. "Test your might – if you dare…!"

A smirk stretched wide, easily his lips; fingers small as the tiny cup, yet they eagerly snatched onto his piece of the countertop, firmly.

"Bottoms up, bitch!"

---

The amidships severely tilted, rolling ever so gently with the churning froth below, her gyroscopes kept her steady at an angle complementary. Through the thick mist, the sloshing white tips, and the deep blue, her instruments had probed, deeply. The yacht's narrow hull had run atop a sunken piece of the line ship's deck, it appeared.

"Jenny!" The poop cabin's safety significantly dubious, it kept Brad not from his call behind the cabin door. "Hey, Jenny! Did you find the problem, yet…?"

"Yes, Brad…!" she moaned. "I did… and I'm not certain I can really do anything 'bout it."

"How so?" the rust-head asked, loudly.

"We've run atop a sunken piece of the deck." She explained. "The hull's wedged squarely on top."

"So…?" Brad pressed. "Just hit it with a well-placed blast, and it should crumble, easily. It shouldn't be a problem for the great GRUXJ9!"

"And how's a hot plasma blast supposed to penetrate cold sea-water?" Back, she asked. "It'll fizzle on impact! Bullets – it'd take more than the ship's carrying to make a suitable fissure – sub-sonic bullets will simply tear themselves apart on contact with water. Should I use some explosives? Heck no – we'd blast a hole clean through the hull! And don't even think 'bout asking me to take a swim! Hydrophobia's the least of my worries!"

"Then what're we supposed to do?" Brad moaned. "Just sit here?"

"If _I_ stand here any longer, I'll be lucky to even move!" A whir a loud burning, a slight creak nicked her tympanums before her arm met her chest plate. "I got to get out of the fog!"

"Come inside then!" Brad said. "May not be the Adrian II, but it's nice and dry at least."

"In my CPU, I'm already there!" carefully, she twisted around. "Leave the light on for me."

One boot before the other, the resistance terribly great, still she hiked up the angled deck. The rocking, the rolling, the crashing of the churning slosh behind and below, her gyroscopes tickled at great and terrible Poseidon's whim. Against her face, puffs of shifting gray wisped, their wake but tiny, incandescent beads on her eyes. A stride final, the endless gray passed gradually away before the plastered Grim Reaper's vacant glare.

She could not have reached the poop cabin, soon enough.

"Come in, Jenny." Plating rattled as the rust head took her by the shoulder, dingy lantern in hand. "Come in, come in – come _in!_"

"So stiff…!" she moaned. "Can barely _move…!_"

"I've just the thing!" Brad held up the olden lantern. "Take it!"

The lantern strange, style rugged of short globe, it mattered in the least as she took it, swiftly. The cap of the well all but ripped off, the oil oozed from that ragged hole straight into her intake. A few minutes, she held the lantern fast above her head till her meal was but a single drip; a rattling bang, the lantern met the olden boards without a second process.

"Much better…!" her shoulders rolled. "May not be Quaker State, but I'll exist. So how'd your little search of the cabin go, Brad?"

"A couple lanterns and some illegible scraps of paper." Woolen shoulders shrugged. "Hardly anything of value to the crewmen. But… you know what's funny, Jen?"

"No." she shook her head. "What?"

"Well, if the Krusts' yacht's called the 'Adrian II'," Brad said, "that means there has to be a previous ship named 'Adrian', right? And didn't we read something in passing 'bout a Spanish line ship named as such…?"

"Yeah." A buzzing in her head as her eyes rolled. "So…?"

"_So…!_" Brad posed. "Want to guess what the late captain christened this old tub…?"

Incredulously, she blinked.

"The 'Adrian'…?"


	16. Chapter XVI

XVI

"Good Lord," behind, the dark suit sighed quite loud, "what is taking so long. Captain Casque, shouldn't your crew have dislodged us by now?"

"Sorry, Sir, but this is a matter of precision – timing and pace!" Casque held up his hand. "This isn't a hack-job, with how much you spent on this yacht and all. Should anything happen too quick or too slow, the effects could be catastrophic – and I don't think Wakeman built her daughter for repair work."

"Must I remind you we've an itinerary to keep?" Mr. Krust pressed. "We're supposed to be docked at port within the hour – and _I_ don't want to explain the delay to the entourage, now do I?"

The 'entourage': the Krust patriarch's security service. Former crooks, thugs, and even the occasional murderer, some who could shoot at least a ring just outside the bull's-eye more than the others. Too, Casque believed in second chances, but them… Mr. Krust could surely better pick!

"I don't even know why you bothered dragging them with you." Frosty glass, he wiped at the pane with his hand. "Shouldn't they be guarding the estate or your place of business?"

"I trust them as far as I could throw them, don't get me wrong." Mr. Krust replied. "Several have serious _time_ ahead of them. They're in violation of parole or probation already by being armed. They know it, I know it – and they know that _I _know it. One word to the magistrates, and they'll be behind bars again before sunset! They won't try anything, I'm sure. Besides, we've that robot girl on board!"

Through many a shifting wisp, his strained eyes peered into the gray.

"Not for much longer." He said. "Once we've reached port, they'll be on their merry way. Work related, as you probably know. So have you any new word from your buddy, Johan Schwartz?"

"Haven't been able to reach him since his initial request." The dark suit said. "Apparently, his old hands are tied with a new program for Jennifer when they don't have a cigarette in a pinch."

"Hmm…!" he nodded. "Smoke does sound good right 'bout now…!"

"Not until you dislodge this ship, Captain!"

"I know… I know—!"

"Captain Casque!" A high voice called over the crackling radio. "_Captain Casque – _Adrian II, do you read me?"

He took the squared microphone in hand, the "T" button depressed with an already sore finger.

"Unidentified vessel," he said, "this is Captain Adrian Casque of the Adrian II, this a reserved channel! State your business!"

"A vessel, am _I…?_" back, the radio cracked. "Gee, I guess you don't want your stinking tub dislodged, very badly, do you? I think I just sit here till this fog rolls away!"

He blinked.

"Wakeman, is that you?" he asked.

"The very same!" she replied chipper. "Often imitated, never duplicated… very well."

"This channel's encrypted – designed only for crewmen!" He frowned. "How'd you get through the cipher?"

"So I used the yacht's communications tower as a relay point!" that tin brat snapped. "So sue me! Do you want this tub freed or not?"

"I can't even see you through this fog." he rubbed at his eyes. "I can barely even make out the wreck! Where the heck are you?"

"I'm on the wreck, inside what's left of the poop cabin." The girl faux replied. "Nothing but weather-beaten documents and a couple ruined lanterns, so you can tell First Mate Jacques not to worry."

"Treasure's not the point!" his lips pursed, irritably.

"Well – wait a minute!" Mr. Krust just had to say. "Can I beg to differ…?"

"Oh – _shush!_"

"The hull's run atop a sunken piece of the wreck's deck." Jennifer said. "It's pretty deep, and I don't process I can dislodge it _and _resurface."

"Use one of your weapon systems." Eyes annoyingly burned as they rolled. "Use a grenade or plasma blast – or something!"

"Funnily enough, I just had the same conversation with Brad!" Jennifer replied, _smartly_. "Would you like an audio recording or a transcript?"

Tit for tat, back and forth, this was getting as far as the Adrian II!

"Well – what _can_ you do!?"

"Nothing much in this thick fog." She said. "Several minutes out there and I was grinding to a halt, already! I've never experienced fog this viscous before. Besides, olfactory sensors are detecting high levels of decomposition."

"You're on an old shipwreck." He sighed. "Of course, it's going to stink somewhat!"

"Not like this." She replied. "It's rather strong. I guess it's what you'd call along the lines of… _death!_ I'm not certain how else to describe it!"

His eyes batted, skeptically.

"Death—?"

Through the shifting gray, atop the angled wreck, something suddenly moved – but a deep shade in the midst of a whirlwind of others. It was probably nothing—

"Did you hear that…?" crackled a voice of high baritone.

"Heard what, Brad?" the faux girl asked.

"On the roof!" the baritone said, quietly. "Sounded like something dumped on the poop deck!"

He would have laughed… if it had not been for that deep gray shade, shifting atop the thickly veiled cabin once more. So slow, so large, and so purposeful that it could not have been an animal opportunistic in midst of migration!

_This really must be…!_

"There it is _again!_" the baritone whispered. "Did you hear the boards creak…?"

"What the heck??" Jennifer just had to exclaim. "Captain Casque, did you or the First Mate send any of the crewmen on board just now?"

"No!" he shook his head, swiftly. "I've not a word from them in the past ten minutes. They're still huddled on the foredeck, if I'm not mistaken."

"If they're there, then who's… up _there?_" the baritone reluctantly asked.

"Stay calm, both of you – and keep quiet." He said hushed. "That does it – I'm sending some men to your location. Best of the Adrian II, they'll handle it!"

"What the heck am I?" Jennifer's protest was quite _loud_. "Chopped liver? I'm not a chump! If you think I'll stand here while you risk your men on this deathtrap, then you've another thing coming – fog or not!"

"Ms. Wakeman, you don't understand!" he shouted back. "You don't know what you're up against!"

"And what makes your men so prepared?" Dismissed him, she did with a huff so snotty it would make even Brit or even Tiff proud. "I'll take my chances. Go find a place to hide, Brad. I'll go check it out. It's probably a seagull or something."

"Jennifer Wakeman, don't—!"

"Jennifer Wakeman, over and _out!_" the tin can pressed. "So _there!_"

The crackle died with but a click – muted as his hand microphone met the panel with a furious _BANG!_ The following growl a crescendo in his throat, he bellowed his frustrations at the humble light fixed to the ceiling.

"Be careful with that equipment!" the Krust exclaimed, uselessly. "Money doesn't grow on trees – it comes from cotton and linen, after all."

Perhaps, his fury was to be better unleashed against the dark suit! It mattered not as the squared microphone found itself in his calloused palm, once more.

"This is your captain speaking!" he called. "First Mate Jacques, send your team to the armory. Equip your team and board the wreck, immediately. Retrieve Ms. Wakeman and her friend as soon as possible. Lethal force is authorized – repeat – lethal force is authorized! Do not bother with the nine-millimeters – go straight for the two-twenty-threes or even the seven-point-six-twos!"

"Yes sir." The First Mate complied. "Anything else?"

"Grab some detonation munitions!" he ordered. "Like it or not, we're blowing the obstacle to kingdom come! I want this ship moving within a half hour—!"

"Are you _mad!?_" the dark suit perplexed. "This is MY ship! Don't you _DARE_ touch my ship like that!"

"Trust me, Mr. Krust." He replied with a solemn shake of the head. "The sooner we're out of here, the better! Can't shake the feeling there's a lot more here than meets the eye…."

"_I_ say we wait for the _Armada Espanola!_" Mr. Krust stamped his expensive loafer against the hardwood. "This is completely absurd! You expect me to let you smite the Adrian II as though it were a ruined tugboat!? I think NOT!"

"Mr. Krust," he sighed, "are you willing to bet the lives of me, the crew, yourself, and even your daughter?"

"What did you say…?" the suit expressively asked. "You'd better not threaten me, Captain Casque – especially my Brittany! A few calls here and there, and you'll be lucky if you can manage even a Captain D's!"

"This is serious!" he growled. "And this is your yacht. But if we're stuck where I hope to God we're not… if the crap's about to hit the fan, you'd better make, possibly, your final decision now! What happens, happens – and don't say I didn't try to warn you if things turn sour!"

"Whatever, Captain!" the Krust patriarch huffed. "I'll let you play your little game – but you or your men are NOT to use any explosives unless absolutely necessary! Do you understand me?"

A victory almost Pyrrhic, still he took in a fresh breath relieving. The broad of his back to his employer, fingers took the radio dial in a pinch and rolled its little, white dot just below three, little, black letters.

"Understood." He promptly took the microphone back in hand. "I'm rescinding my order – do not use the explosives…"

---

"Jenny!" Brad's call hoarse and vacant. "_Jennifer…!_ What're you doing!? You're not actually going out there, are you…?"

"Pull yourself together, Bradley!" She sourly frowned. "This may be the Adrian, but its dreaded captain's long since passed away. It's all in your head, I'm telling you! Probably, a seagull is making himself at home on the deck above."

"Or maybe its another one of Solomon's quirky tests!" at her, the rust-head too frowned from behind the imposing desk waterlogged. "A pop quiz – what is it this time!? Evil bottlenose dolphins, a lunatic whale, or the Kraken even…?"

"And me without my onion donuts." She shook her head. "Will you calm down? I'll go check it out. If something does happen, just hide yourself behind that desk. Big, thick, and nasty scent spectrum, no one will bother to look further."

A boot angled for the cabin door, her shuffling feet almost glided upon the ruined timbers. If only the knob were as well greased, the torque so great her buzzing hand nearly twisted the grubby bulb off clean. She put her shoulder into it while the door forced open in a lazy arc.

"But, Jenny!" Brad's protest was weak. "What 'bout the fog…?"

"I won't be too long, Brad." Through, she shoved her way. "If I'm not back in five minutes, come and get me."

"That's not a good sign, Jen." He called. "I can barely lift you as-is! What makes you think I can drag you back at an angle? Tell me that!"

She let her eyes take a lap around their sockets.

"Just don't drop me into the sea, and we won't have issues – okay?" she said. "See what you can grab before we go."

Back into the mist, she could have waited a little longer; visual array pierced the swirling grayness, she could make out what appeared to be the huddle of crewmen scaling their way down the second Adrian's hull. Orderly ensembles of maritime, it was rather odd seeing them with cumbersome weapons. Several assault rifles of Kalashnikov and Stoner design, who in the world would use those antiques anymore?

Why did they have to bring them at all; it was the most prudent question, after all!

"I see… something." The man at point said; behind, the rest of the men fell into formation. "Identify yourself or we open fire!"

Her knuckles met the waist of her stiff skirt with a _tang._

"Jennifer Wakeman of the Wakeman Party." Her eyes rolled again. "First Mate Jacques, is that you?"

"Affirmative!" the man at point called.

"What the heck are you guys doing?" she frowned. "Have you lost your minds!?"

"Just a safety precaution." The First Mate lowered his olden M4 to the ready. "Captain Casque sent us, as you probably heard. We're here to take you and Brad back to the ship."

"And what _about_ the ship?" she said.

"We've brought some explosives." Jacques and a couple men made his way closer. "And some scuba gear. We don't care what Mr. Krust says – we're getting out of here! We're going to plant some on the sunken piece of deck and detonate them, simultaneously. On the right spots, it should be enough to collapse the sunken piece and allow the Adrian II to pass through. In fact, I think some men behind are just about to start!"

"Great news!" she smiled. "Don't know how much more of this fog my joints can take."

"Where's your friend Bradley?" asked Jacques. "Is he close?"

"Actually, he's still in the cabin." In the midst of a sudden rock, she nearly toppled over as back she turned for the door. "Could you watch my back while I go get him. Those seagulls would just love to _drop _a fresh load on my panels!"

He laughed hearty… at least, she processed he did….

"Calm yourself, Jacques." She shrugged. "I wasn't certain it was _that _funny!"

"Actually… Ms. Wakeman!"

"Yeah?"

"I… didn't laugh!"

She blinked, a process foreboding in the hurried midst of a torrent of others. Quickly, she dropped to a tactical crouch.

"If you didn't laugh," she peeked, cautiously over both her shoulders, "then… _who_ did—?"

Through the fog, another laughed had pierced – and her thin lips graced the rotting timbers, harshly! Downed – she had been downed again! Servos a buzzing whirr, joints burning as though her whole shell gained several hundred pounds in a moment fleeting. Her lips flattened against the wood – only to recede, neutrally as a pair of something touched upon the deck.

"What the—??" The First Mate struggled through his own surprise. "The hell IS THIS _THING!?_"

Another cackle demonic, up she pushed to her knees. A pair of boots, seemingly leather blackened, stood opposing to Jacques. The legs apart, intentionally confronting: one was draped with a ragged cloth of equal darkness while the other seemingly an oddly placed peg – a femur, it clicked in her database! Up drew her gaze engrossing, up the ratty legs, the backside half clothed and half _ribbed_, and detouring with the arms of bone and rotten flesh. A quaff ragged of white peeked from underneath the grimy tricorne.

In grips of bone and strange flesh dangled a pair of swords, the right a mix heterogeneous of a lengthy blade and what appeared to be a derringer. The left one longer and strange, its wide blade of dark gray protruded, greatly from that black beak of a hilt. A sliver of red thickly intertwined, it was but a tongue, lapping the hilt's open chops in eager wait for new blood.

Her right arm suddenly twitched.

_No…! _She shook her head. _No – not again…!_

The freak laughed, heartily.

"I-Identify yourself…!" Jacques pushed forth his rifle. "Till the count of three, I open fire!"

"What the _FUCK!?_" she was certain her tympanums had caught from the churning froth.

"_Pf…_ miserable wretches!" it said, strangely hoarse. "What do you want? What are you doing on _my _ship!?"

Nothing, it was Jacques reply.

"Silence, then?" it said. "How dare you – I'll _STRANGLE YOU TO DEATH!!_ Arm yourself!"

"Drop your blades…!" through the breeze, she caught the rifle's unnerving rattle. "I'm not playing pirate games with you!"

"Shut your mouth, bastard!" it crossed its odd blades. "I've no need for weak souls! Have at you!"

A humble click, the First Mate took up the trigger's slack – yet the freak paused not! It dashed for the man, both blades reared even with its shoulders; the space between closed in but a grinding bat of her eyes—

—_BLAM! _

A single shot, the spiraling copper smashed into the skull's vacant gaze, needlessly, uselessly. The freak smacked the rifle away with but a swat of its odd sword, the gun caught in a lazy spin down the angled deck past the hurried, hiking crew! Both blades angled for the First Mate with simple pulls of the wrist. The right one merged, deeply with Jacques in midst of a light thrust; the oil-curdling yelp was the crowning touch.

"Stop – _STRUGGLING!!_"

Its demand not met even with the thrust of its second, it retook its weapons by the jutting grips and made them slice out their separate ways. Out groaning his final breath, Jacques simply… tumbled over himself onto the deck, twitching within his wet, blushing puddle. The freak took in a breath, one of a cold, sparkling blue that had steamed over the writhing mess…!

"Yes…!" its tricorne shook, gladly. "Yes – that's _it!_"

A wave of expression swept through the men approaching, similar and equal flummox. One man simply lost his lunch all over his uniform.

"Jacques!" another called, uselessly.

"Hold it right there!" demanded yet another. "Drop your weapons!"

"More a wayward soul!" it held out its reddened blades, eagerly. "Lady Luck must be on my side today…!"

"I said drop – your – weapons!"

"You all are a queer looking folk." It mocked. "Angered over the loss of your dear first mate? You shouldn't be! You should be grateful he's become a part of my power!"

"Not responding!" a nameless crewman exclaimed. "Take him down!"

"Fine then!" it growled. "Come with me to _HELL!!_"

The fog enlightened with many a fiery crackle of star shapes; the freak proceeded unfazed with several lengthy strides. The cabin behind a twitter with many cracks and splinters, all the rounds spent had pierced the grim reaper's dead gaze. The reaper's proxy promptly took its turn. One by one, the crewmen fell to each a downward slash or a couple horizontal. A poor fellow no taller than she, the freak uplifted him high in the midst of a lingering thrust – a crackle, a flash of bright yellow at his belly – onto the deck, the freak slammed him with an overhead toss.

Mists of sparkling twilight, it took it all inside with a single deep breath.

"Ah…!" it breathed. "That should keep me going for now."

_That does it!_

"Hold it!" she jumped to her feet.

"What?" it turned on its charred heels, a single eye of white blinking. "And what might you be, pray tell? What sort of sorcery are you?"

"This is no sorcery or supernatural!" she took to a battle stance. "This is nothing more than cutting-edge technology!"

"Shut your trap, wench!" it frowned… at least, she processed.

"You shut _your _trap!" she growled. "Who do you think you are – some sort of god!? The crewmen and the First Mate – what the hell gave you the right to kill them?"

"Quiet!" back, it too growled. "I've no need for weak souls!"

"Souls…?"

Her arm twitched again… and again… and again!

"_No!_" her left hand clamped onto the shaky forearm. "No – not _now…!_"

"Ah…!" it said. "I sense a familiar soul in you, strange child of metal. Good! Soul Edge here is looking to complete itself—!"

"Soul Edge!?" she shook her head. "You have the Soul Edge!?"

"Ha, ha, ha…!" holding out its strange, lengthier blade, it laughed. "By the gears of madness turned by the mighty Inferno, the evil blade was reborn into my hands! Rejoice, for your fickle soul shall become part of my power! Show me… your soul, girl of armor!"

"Think you can dismantle me, huh…?" up, she groaned into a proper stance. "Try me."

"You dare challenge me, you fool…?" back, it growled. "Very well – have at you!"

Its blades lengthy and strange, the freak dropped about an inch or two into a stance of its own desire. Barren leg in front, the leg of purple bizarre behind perpendicular, the two blades crossed each other with a slice before they arced down into ready positions. Ratty, tattered garb somewhat indigenous of the country nearby, the stance very characteristic of the far, far east.

_It's very Japanese… for a Spanish pirate._ She nodded._ Someone's been reading _Go Rin No Sho _or something_….

It mattered not; a hammer fist met her twitching arm harsh enough for it to snap out of its fit. The wreck rolling yawing at great Poseidon's whim, her feet held fast on the angled deck, the forward boot sliding all the more so, purposefully. The servos buzz lost in the hoarse breeze, her limb took a little _too_ long shifting into a blaster.

_This damn fog…!_ She frowned. _I have to end this quick!_

"More arms of fire?" it growled again. "You jest – and _I'LL DROWN YOU FOR THIS INSULT!!_"

"All's fair in love and war!" she smirked. "You want my ghost so bad – then come and get it!"

"Again, very well!" the boards banged in wake of its stomp. "Show me your ghost, child of armor!"

---

Large, dark eyes weak and weary, boyish face flushed in the low light close to a beet red, it seemed little Tucker had been enjoying himself a bit too much!

"You, you – you know… what's funny, Shell?" that large head bobbed and weaved erratic. "Jenny's got a great… BUTT!"

Sheldon sore eyes rolled; he thought not Tuck's drinks had _that_ much alcohol bubbling within the highball glass. Even he made certain to water the mixers down; such good that did. If the boy did not plant a fat kiss upon the floor from the high stool, it would be his lucky day!

"That's… great, Tucker." He blinked; perhaps he too had one too many. "Really great…. Wait – you're 'bout ten years old! The heck do you know 'bout great butts…?"

"Sheldon, my man," those large eyes batted, "you were my height once. Don't you remember what it was like…? When you're my size, lost inside a crowd… it's like being trapped in a forest! Ever-shifting legs the trunks, and pairs of round, rolling cheeks the crowns! And from my vantage point, you can see a little _more_ than a great looking piece—!"

Wisely... at least, Shell eased his weight onto the countertop.

"Oh really…?" He leaned closer. "What else can you see _down under_, little Tucker?"

"Pan-TIES!!" the little boy laughed. "Pretty in pink, classic white, basic black, and a rather nasty run-in with crimson. Let's just say I know now why it's a curse – ha-HA…!"

"Really now…?" he blinked. "Don't say did that much in my prepubescent years—"

Tuck coughed.

"That's 'cause…!"

"Because… what?" he blinked.

"Because YOU'RE EMOTIONALLY DETACHED FROM YOUR PEE-PEE!!"

His eyes batted, incredulously; whilst a boy, Tucker was a male _indeed!_

"What… the – _hell…?_" loosely aghast, the words struggled out through his shaky throat. "The hell did _that_ come from!?"

"Aw – don't feel bad, Shell." Tuck patted his arm with a hearty slap! "I find that's the case with many guys! You probably don't even have a name for it."

He coughed.

"Uh – _what!?_"

"You heard me, Sheldon!" Tucker loosely glared a warped dagger. "You don't have a name for yours, do you!? Nameless and alone… probably the only daylight it feels is when you've had one too many from the vending machines!"

_Speaking of one too many…!_

"What in God's name are you talking 'bout…?" he shook his head.

"In order to achieve synergy with one's manhood, you must give it a name!" Tuck yelled. "A name so great, so prodigious that every girl on the planet will want to become one with you – even sweet Jennifer!"

He laughed.

"Alright, Tuck…." A finger wiped, singly at his eyelid. "So what great, prodigious name did you bestow your package, pray tell?"

"Good that you should ask." Tuck smiled, tiredly. "For my great piece that the ladies shall thrust themselves upon is none other than 'Amorphophallus Titanum'!"

He blinked incredulous.

"What?"

"Amorphophallus Titanum!" Tuck yelled, proudly. "God, I just love the sound of that! Behold, ladies of the world – and-or the night, my Amorphophallus Titanum, the rare, botanical wonder! Behold my mighty, eight-foot protrusion as it – POLLINATES all over the many flowers of love! If I become a superhero like Jenny, I want to become as it!"

"The Corpse Flower?" he coughed. "Lord, I feel sorry for the unfortunate who gets the displeasure of you!"

"At least I'll have one – unlike you!" Tuck frowned, cutely. "Come now, Sheldon Lee! In order to have the chance – at LEAST – of bedding someone, you must bestow your manhood with a name fitting of your prodigious power! Now – what IS IT!?"

"You know what, you're right!" his fist met the table, firmly. "Perhaps I should, and I believe I've the name most suitable! I am not merely a man – I've got a secret, I've got a SECRET!"

"What is it, Shell?" Tuck pressed. "What's its name—?"

"Its true identity!" Up, he proudly stood. "It's KILROY!!"

"Kilroy…?" Tuck blinked, gradually.

"KILROY!!"

"_Pf…!_" the little boy snorted. "You _would_ choose that! No thank you, Mr. Roboto."

"What's that supposed to mean!?"

"Nothing." Tuck held up his little hand. "It means nothing. But… I think there's something you should know though."

"Oh really?" he rubbed at his eyes. "What's that…?"

"It's Jenny, man." The boy chortled, softly. "She knows…."

He shook his head.

"What? She knows _what_, Tucker?"

"Ha!" Tuck laughed. "She knows… you want her so… _bad!_ But you know what…? Even with your little Kilroy, you're not going to get it! Not going to get it…! Besides, I don't think that's physically possible, anyway. But there's something else you should know, too!"

"Do I really want to hear it?" he sighed.

"Yes!" Tuck nodded, deeply. "Because… I _said_ so! Jenny's panties…! They're – cyan! Ha, ha – _HA…!_ I knew I was the short man for some reason…!"

The blood rushed rather generously to his face.

"I think we both had a little too much, Tuck." He rubbed at his crown. "I don't know 'bout you, but I think I'm heading back to the cabin for a well-deserved nap."

"_Aw…!_" the little boy moaned. "But I didn't drink you under the counter yet…!"

"No," he shook his head, "_you_ might as well have drank yourself under. Just some things strangers would rather not know…!"

The boy pushed to his feet atop the foot bar; Tuck's chin was just over the countertop.

"Oh yeah!" those large eyes narrowed. "I'll have you know one, all-important thing! A thing so important, my very health depends upon it!"

"Gee, can't wait to hear this…!"

"I… got to – PEE!" Tuck affirmed with a hearty nod. "Now, where's the head on this bucket!"

_This is going to be a long day—_


	17. Chapter XVII

XVII

The fight over painfully quick as it had begun; the poop cabin could not contain the utter distress as he pushed away the cabin's door with a smash!

"Jenny!" steps hurried but wary, down they guided him to that floored, twitching wreck. "_Jenny! _You still online!?"

A jolt of a twitch her reply on cracked timbers, cold probed sharply into his clammy palms as he scooped up her head.

"_Uh…_" Eyes winced through large lids of metal. "_Um…!_"

"Come on!" chilly arms gave her a hard shake. "Where's the wake-up button when I need it!? Answer me, Jen - the ship's in trouble!"

Another groan pitiful, she returned his gaze by a half opened eye. Hard pressed was sense, sinking back into her large head byte by byte with every shake. Escaped from her speaker did a noisy groan.

"Boy…!" her eyes batted. "Did anyone get the plate number off that truck…?"

A truck, either Peterbuilt or Mack, practically had flattened Jenny. That freak was good – too good to be anything profane or natural. Flesh a bizarre pink-purple, it held fast to merely half its frame, the rest severely charred and barren – _movement_ unimpeded with every swing of its two blades. Jenny knew not of what she tangled; Bradley thought not any past victim knew of what lay hidden within this choking fog! One sword a mix heterogeneous of a flintlock derringer and cold steel, the other a strange, dark blade that singly peeked with a sliver of red; it used them both with ease very well trained!

One move fresh in his mind, the very move that abandoned Jenny to the waterlogged timber, it thrust its strange blade into Jenny's belly while she had previously been grounded. It relinquished her belly of the blade; up off the boards, the rest of the girl was yanked with it! Its single orb of cloudy white a twinkle, it pushed its mixed blade forward – a hot blast met her thigh, her airtime increasing somehow coerced! Higher, the strange muzzle and she climbed by another shot – and another – and another! Its deed complete, it rose to a common stand as her head met the deck with a splintering crunch!

"_I salute your courage… for challenging me…"_ It had said, hoarsely through a rotten breath. _"Now, OUT OF MY SIGHT!!"_

Turning upon a blackened heel, the fog's embrace ever shifting, the freak lost itself somewhere within. A moment or two had passed, the thing gracing her not its presence, he had believed it somewhat safe.

"Jenny, are you okay?" Towards him, he turned her head. "Can you see me?"

"Yeah…." Cold bit into his cheek as she graced him her palm. "What 'bout you, Brad? Did he… _it_ – whatever that thing was get at you?"

"No." his head shook, aptly. "I was inside the cabin the whole time, watching through one of the windows. I almost thought you had it till that strange pistol juggle!"

"You and I both."

Her body once pristine and whole somewhat, several spots dappled her paneling, rather _blackly._ Motors and servos, their winding whirrs and drawls, they tickled his ears all the more loudly. One at the belly so large, he was certain to have caught a dark, awkwardly slatted sliver of her very workings internal.

"What a mess…!" His finger traced the wound's ragged brim. "I don't think I can see any sort of mini-ball – it's strange. What the hell gave you these?"

"The very inferno of Hell itself, it seems." She sighed. "Thank goodness for Sheldon."

"Sheldon!" he exclaimed.

"What?" she blinked. "What 'bout him?"

"He's back on the ship!" he took in a breath hasty. "So are the Krusts, Solomon, and Tuck! That freak just turned around and disappeared – they're all in serious danger!"

"You're right." Gradually, she rose to her boots. "We've got to get back there and fast."

"Can you walk?"

"I think I'm okay, despite the obvious." She said. "Don't worry 'bout me."

"What 'bout the other crewmen?" he asked. "Any idea?"

"First Mate Jacques and some of his men are dead." She sighed. "I don't know 'bout the others. We'll have to assume the worst, but that reminds me…!"

The First Mate's body, utterly useless as it lay cut asunder, it did not seem to irk her as she outreached a hand. Motors a louder buzz; a grinding high pitched met his ears as out shot that very hand by a lengthy tether. The grotesquery ignored, her hand instead fetched something rather dark that lay beside. Her hand at her wrist just as quick, she gave him the object with a light toss. Through this fog, it was a miracle he did not drop it.

It was a gun, a long gun that the US had retired ages ago. Why Jacques preferred something so antiqued was beyond him.

"Why are you giving me this?" he asked.

"As much as it goes against mostly everything in my ghost, I've no time to baby sit." She said. "You may have to watch your own back when we get back."

"That's fine with me." With a huff, he slung the rifle over his shoulder by the sling. "What's the plan?"

"I'm already certain what you're going to do." A drawl a whining whirr, her typical blaster withdrew from her arm. "No point in trying to stop you. You go and get Tuck and some of the others you come across, and I'll take care of our uninvited guest. Just make sure you don't shoot yourself in the foot, okay?"

"Fine with me." He nodded.

"Come on, Brad." Wood scratched as she turned on a wide heel. "Let's do it!"

"Right!"

---

The humble dining room's door opened with a great bang, steps carried in Sheldon's new guest by a slow plodding. Squishy and sloshing, they practically sounded… wet!

_Then again, we're on the open seas. _A thought easily dismissed. _Probably some sailor got a little too carried away on the deck._

A soul around not for possibly a few hundred feet, little Tuck beside himself with the great Titan Arum within the nearby head, this man might provide Sheldon with conversation more rich and enlightening. Tales of the high seas perhaps, late nights when Adrian II made port, or maybe pathos of the man's torment and terror, a personal devil that rivaled infamous Davy Jones!

Soon enough, he would find out—

Out from the partition's thin corner, a blackened switch lifted, casually. Somewhat half of a helix, a pair of twigs – one thick, one thin - bowed out behind a nasty swell of a clump. Before that undulation, a set of five sticks jutted out for a little shorter than the bowed pair, the top one of the five stood somewhat in opposition…!

_Is that… bone!?_

"Barkeep!" bellowed its owner, hoarsely. "_BARKEEP!!_"

Down Sheldon plunged into the cramped safety of the imposing counter; tall a little over his waist and thick with solid oak, it should provide suitable cover. Steps ploddingly slow a crescendo; his heart exponentially upped its pace, pointlessly pounding against his sternum.

Perhaps another shot would do him good!

_If there really is a god in heaven,_ within the thought, he strongly winced, _please strike Tuck with a really bad case of indigestion – or something! Just keep him away from here…_

"Scurvy nave…!" it growled. "Where are you? Show yourself and maybe I'll forget you've a soul to forcibly sell—"

A hollow, vacant flush, a sigh thick with relief, Tucker had finished his business too soon! Something, quickly Sheldon must do!

"Ah-ha…!" It jeered. "One too many at this bar already, so this ear catches! Keeping a customer waiting whilst you drain the sea monster? You've any idea how rude is that!? Perhaps I treat myself to your soul 'fore I have myself that drink!"

"No!" eyes firmly shut, thin quads burned as up they sprang him. "Don't touch him – he's just a child!"

A batting of the eyes – what little lunch he had worked its way back up his throat. Before him stood a disgusting, charred shell of what was once a man. A single orb of white milky as its ragged quaffs, it gazed him a dagger below its three-point hat as large and as wide as one of its swords twined fraternal. Patches of fuchsia purple peeking from thick, wide expanses of nasty black, one of its arms was covered; the other was but wet and grimy – nasty bone!

"Ah-ha…!" blackened mandible opened and shut, accordingly. "There you be hiding…! How dare you keep me in wait!"

"I'm… I'm sorry!" out his trembling throat, the words struggled. "I guess I must've had one to many here…."

"That, I'll say!" it took but a single step closer; it was all that was needed. "This old shell hasn't a drink for many a year, it seems. One day, I be plundering a merchant ship, gathering many a lost, wayward soul for me to feast – suddenly, I be floored within the cabin. Everything was but utter blackness, blacker than the sea on a moonless night. No more than an hour ago did my ship be boarded by some of the queerest folk this eye had ever seen! Not to mention that rum girl, a child of pure metal and armor…!"

His knuckles popped in his fist.

"Oh really…?" hard, he swallowed.

"A wee bit shorter than I, purest of metals throughout, it was not an easy battle." It took its nasty rear to a close-by stool. "Surely, I thought her soul would make an excellent meal – but I was cheated! No soul was to be found at all – yet there was something to that fickle spirit, an utter maliciousness familiar to my blade…."

Upon the wide countertop, it laid its two blades. His eyes overran them with childish curio – his heart pained, twisting within his chest. One a mix of lengthy blade and a derringer, it held not a glint to its partner. A blade dark and foul of many a victim past, it lavished their splattered blood with a thin tongue of thick, twisting knots of red. Out, the red poked from that large, ragged beak of a hilt.

"I shall find out soon enough." It pushed them away, down the vacant countertop. "First, I am in need of a drink – a serious drink! Neither water nor sweets, only the finest liquor shall do! Use your deadlights, mate and grab this bitter, old salt some rum! The rope's end's but an arm's reach away, you know!"

"My, aren't you the cheery one." He turned on his heels. "Let's see… rum, rum, rum, rum…!"

The bar shelves packed to the many edges, yet the drink required seemed to elude him. Vodka Ketel One, Ireland's infamous cream courtesy of Bailey, and even several green bottles of Noilly Prat, it seemed the barkeep of Adrian II favored martinis of plethora when he was not downing Irish car-bombs. It was but with a third sweep of the second shelf did he discover another olden pirate – in red, a boot propped upon a toppled barrel before a bottle of liquid gold.

"Ah – here we are…." He plucked the bottle from the shelf. "I'd tell you to put some of the captain in you, but that seems rather… redundant. Would you like a glass or a bottle—?"

"Give it here, boy!"

The bottle ripped from his hand by blackened, _bony_ digits, the thing's wish already had been made.

The twist cap of darker gold but scrap in an instant, it was lost upon the floor as it flicked it away. Bottleneck to its teeth, pockets of air bubbled to the bottle's bottom as back it angled. Sounds of crashing, splashing water, the fouled gold flowed from out its rotten self; the charred darkness deepened into utter black! It must have made a rather nasty mess on the carpet; the Krusts or the captain would surely have his head!

"Ah…!" the bottle half empty met the countertop with a hearty bang. "Just what I was in need of. For your troubles, scurvy nave!"

Behind its back, he reached; his gut clenched in ominous anticipation. Fist of purple flesh fat with something, it met the countertop with a knocking clatter. Golden pieces spilled out from its loosened grip.

"Doubloons?" he blinked.

"You _won't _mind if I take the bottle?" it dismissed, a statement more than an inquiry.

"Sure – _SURE!_" he held up his hands. "It maybe the only rum bottle on board, but you're more than welcome to it."

"I thought as much." It smirked… at least, that's what he believed. "This may not be the Black Tail, but I'll just _take_ what I can get—"

"You can _get_ off my stool – for one!" barked a voice, boyish. "I'm gone for a couple minutes and here this… _free_loader comes and takes my seat! What kind of… establishment is this!?"

His crown tingled; his hand met it with a firm slap.

_Great – _THIS_ is all I need…!_

"Avast!" its grimy vertebrae twisted it around on the seat. "Belay that talk, little boy 'fore you be my grub! I think not a soul puny as yours would make but a suitable appetizer!"

"The hell are you…?" large eyes bleary took their time in midst of a blink. "Some kind of emo-necrophile or something? And I thought Solomon liked getting it on with dead people, but you… you're just a _whole_ different ballgame!"

"Insolent, bilge-sucking dog!" a bang of clatter, the stool capsized onto the floor as off the thing shoved. "You dare speak to dreaded Cervantes de Leon in such manner!? You'll do more than kiss the gunner's daughter on my ship, but you're not even worth the effort! Soul Edge here deserves a soul better than a common grub!"

_Soul Edge!?_ He blinked, incredulous!

Away, Tucker's little body winced upon a single foot.

"Oh, so my goofy, little kid soul isn't food enough for you…?" he sniffed. "Is _that_ it?"

The undead shrugged.

"Well, aye—!"

"So I'm not going to get absorbed unless I get hit by a bus or fall overboard?" the little boy unwisely pressed with a frown stern.

"I said no such thing—!"

"Or get stabbed, fall off a cliff, or get pounded by a giant gorilla!?" Tuck stomped.

"Now, you're being daft—!"

"I thought you were a necromancer in search of souls!"

"Of course!" it charged up a bony fist.

Tuck glanced shamefully away, a sigh staccato escaping out from that bobble-head.

"I thought I had a soul…."

"You do, but—!"

"Well, as a vessel containing one," the boy took in a breath, "let me tell you something 'bout necromancy - souls are souls! And it is the necromancer's task to harvest these souls, not just the giant gorilla-sized ones – but also the goofy, kid ones too. So what do you say, Service of Gray Poupon?"

"Señor _Cervantes de Leon_ to you!" The walking dead growled. "I must say you drive a hard bargain, little whelp! Such misfortune that you were not among my crew during my time – I could've used someone of your talents. But… there's simply but one thing you should keep in mind, bilge rat."

Leg of ratty cloth uplifted, up the thing scooped its strange blades into its squalid grasp. This was not going to be good, this whole ship for the staff of iron back in the Wakeman cabin!

"Oh yeah, de Poupon?" Tuck batted a slow, weary eye. "What's that, pray tell…?"

A weapon in each hand, the undead crossed his arms swiftly – a closer cut than what Shell wanted when the pistol sword sliced through his hair in midst of his duck! Within a vortex powerful, blades were locked in a swirling waltz around its body – on their own, no less! Higher and higher, they reached until they both swirled level at that ruined tricorne.

"I am _IMMORTAL!_" it relished in a shout. "Can you say the same…?"

The two blades met above the three-point hat with a clash, pressed together as they arced down, surely into a stab… where little Tucker happened to loosely stand. Somehow, the large, glass bottle of Smirnoff triple distilled found its way into his clutching hand.

"Tuck, WATCH OUT!!" he shouted.

The little boy blinked, slowly.

"What…?"

"I said – DUCK!!"

He placed a firm hand onto the countertop, his choice made, following through as he up swung his legs from off the floor. The right piece of his hip landed, merely square onto the countertop, an effort wasted not as his left leg finished the job. At the nasty head, the sneaker connected hard. The thing tumbled to the floor, the nearby stools falling with in an effect, purely domino.

The vodka bottle cocked by his head, no time to waste as the blades closed the yawning height! Strength a strong surge within his muscles, the chill bit at his palm no more when his chucked it for the boy. Lost in a daze somewhat, those large, dark eyes seemed to shrink just before the same frost bit at his large crown.

Large eyes rolled back into the wide head, the boy fell back out of harms way – the stabbed blades wobbling, stereotypically _in_ the floor…!

"Aw – _AHHHHH!!_" the boy moaned, blaringly loud, clutching his head. "Damn, that _HURTS!!_"

Shell paid it little mind as off he hopped from the counter; Brad could or would kill him later, for all he cared.

"Sorry, Tuck, but it had to be done!" he scooped the boy into his arms.

"My _ASS_ it had to be done!" the boy squirmed against him. "Look… I'm _bleeding!_"

The boy's little, cupping hand flush, blushing with oozing red, gently off, he pried it. The wound but a minor gash, it did bloom rather generously. Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps not.

"We'll take care of it later, okay?" he pushed to his feet. "We have to get out of here 'fore that thing comes to!"

"Aw _man…!_" Tuck moaned. "God – Brad's going to have your head, you know!"

"He can have it later!" he rounded the thin corner, already past the door and into the corridor. "Let's move!"

---

"First Mate Jacques, what's your status?" Casque thumbed the square microphone's "T" button. "What's going on out there? First Mate, respond!"

Whispers of crackling static and nothing more, such had his ears been tickled with for the past twenty minutes. Something was afoot, definitely, something certainly foul…!

"What's going on out there, Captain Casque?" Behind, daddy Krust demanded. "Why haven't they radioed in? Why's this taking so long?"

"I can't tell you 'cause I honestly don't know!" he protested. "With fog this thick, it wouldn't be farfetched if the transistors simply shorted out. Maybe its that or maybe it _is_ something else – I don't know."

"Then what _do_ you know, dear Captain!" The dark suit pressed.

"We're stuck!" he threw up his hands. "That's 'bout all I know for sure."

"What of that robot girl?" Krust said. "What happened to her? Don't tell me she sank to the ocean floor, did she?"

"Lord, what did I _just_ tell you?" he frowned. "I said I don't know! No one's radioed in since our last communiqué. I'm thinking 'bout sending an investigation team down there to check it out—"

"Captain Casque!" the radio let out an intentional crackle. "Captain Casque! This is Brody – do you read me?"

"Yes, thank God." He thumbed the "T" button again. "What's your twenty? What's going on out there?"

"Explosives have been planted within the sunken hull, RC detonators primed." The sailor replied. "We can blast anytime – just ensure the rest of us are onboard first, that is."

"Captain!" Mr. Krust exclaimed. "What have I told you 'bout explosives with _my _ship!?"

"Excellent news!" he dismissed. "What of the others? Where's First Mate Jacques or the Wakeman robot?"

"We've just surfaced, Sir." The sailor said. "We've been underwater, planting ordinance the whole time. I don't think I see anyone on the deck, except…. (What's that stuff over yonder 'bout amidships? Go check it out, Skip!) No, there's no one here!"

"That's… not good!" he swallowed. "It _must_ be…!"

"Didn't we hear shots a little while ago?" Mr. Krust asked. "Almost like a volley—!"

"Holy _GUACAMOLE!!_" Brody said not, rather did another from far away. "Brody, check it—! Oh _God…_ I think I'm going to hurl—!"

"What is it, Abrams—" Brody's thought initial left unfinished. "Holy Shi—!"

"Sailor Brody, report!" he demanded. "What's going on? Did you find Jacques and the others?"

"Yes, sir…." Brody's sigh thick with what seemed like disgust. "But…!"

"But what, sailor?" he pressed. "What did you find?"

"The rest of the men and the First Mate, Captain!" Brody took in a _static_ breath. "They're dead – they're all _DEAD!_"

He rubbed at his wearied eyes.

"_DEAD!?_" the Krust patriarch was left boggled. "What do you mean they're dead!?"

"I heard that!" the sailor exclaimed. "You know – _dead!_ Kaput, deceased, passed on! They're all in a better place now, but I'm damn sure their jilting wasn't pleasant. It appears they've been cut to ribbons by some type of blade…!"

"What of their equipment?" the Krust demanded. "Are any of _my_ pieces unaccounted for…?"

"I don't believe this as the work of modern-day pirates." Brody replied. "None of their equipment's been touched… what's left of it, that is. Whoever – _what_ever did this, there's no sign of it. I don't think that robot girl's aboard, anyway—! (Hey, Abrams – did you see Jacques' old M4 lying around somewhere…?)"

"What??" Mr. Krust yelped. "You'd better find my rifle – or I'm garnishing your wages, post-haste!"

"Never mind him." He shook his head. "Sailor, recover what you can from your fallen comrades and return to the ship ASAP! Report to the bridge, once aboard, and we'll proceed to detonate those charges! I want out of this fog bank no more than fifteen minutes! Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir." Brody replied. "Proceeding to RTB, now. Over and out."

Dead, the other end of the line went with a subtle click; the microphone had not the chance to rest back in its catch nor did he time's luxury. The ship, the crew, and inexorably his _pay_ floated in jeopardy, dead in the water already! The PA button could not have depressed quickly enough.

"This is Captain Casque speaking." His hasty words welcomed by that blinking, red light. "Attention! Due to the possibility of an intruder on board, I am issuing a complete lockdown of this ship. All active crew and nonessential personnel are to report to the armory, immediately. All passengers are to return to their cabins, no exceptions. Any passenger found outside his cabin shall be subject to detainment – that means you two, Brit and Tiff! Jennifer Wakeman, please report to the armory, as well. On your way!"

"A complete lockdown!?" boggled the patriarchal Krust, pointlessly. "Are you mad!?"

"You maybe willing to risk the lives aboard this ship, but I'm not." At the windshield, he frowned. "I'll be damned if the blood aboard will be on my hands. Better safe than sorry."

"_You'll _be sorry if a hair upon Brittany's head is plucked!" Krust growled. "My threats are still valid, you know."

"If it turns out to be nothing, then it's nothing!" he groaned. "If it _is_ something, a lock's a small price to keep her blood off the carpet. You'll thank me later, I'm sure."

"We'll see—"

A loud _BANG_ from the wall behind, the bridge's door had swung open, unexpectedly! He too turned on his heel, as did the imposing ensemble of a power suit and appropriate tie. Rolled gently in a hunch, a spiky cap flashed at him a shade auburn as French cuffs atop khaki knees kept the boy from toppling. An old rifle of Colt's tweaked design dangled from a woolen shoulder by a simple sling; the case of the missing M4 solved, instantly.

"_Huh…!_" the boy breathed, haggardly. "_Huh…_"

"Hold it right there, son!" he held out a hand. "You don't know what you're doing. Let's just talk. Just put the rifle down – nothing bad will happen, I swear!"

"What?" those large, dark eyes boggled. "No – I'm not the bad guy here!"

"Someone who's _not_ the bad guy wouldn't have the First Mate's rifle, now would he?" the Krust huffed, irritably. "Alright, kiddy – what the hell's going on!?"

"Idiot!" he growled, strongly. "What's the point in getting him mad? We'll be lucky if he doesn't drill one right between the headlights! If he pulls something out of anger, the crew won't get here fast enough to stop him!"

"Did you hear me?" the redhead frowned. "I'm _not_ the bad guy here! You expect me to take on that… that _thing_ out there barehanded!? I was lucky enough _not_ to run into it again!"

"Who're you anyway, Son?" his inquiry suspicious. "What's your name?"

"Man… Bradley Carbuncle of the Wakeman Party." Those large eyes rolled. "I charged all the way back here to warn you guys."

"So you're the 'Brad' Jennifer spoke of." He nodded. "Good to know."

"You didn't answer my question, Mr. Carbuncle!" the Krust yelled as though he meant something, strongly. "Where did you get that rifle!?"

His weary eyes rolled, too.

"Is that all you can think about?" he moaned. "More importantly, Mr. Carbuncle, did you see what had happened to the First Mate?"

"Yeah, I saw it with my own two eyes!" he exclaimed. "We were in the poop cabin, like you probably heard, and this damn thing lands on the poop deck! Jenny went to check it out while I stayed inside. Looking out the window, I saw the First Mate speaking with her when this… _thing _– came out of nowhere! Half… purple man – half walking skeleton with a pair of wicked-looking swords! Jacques tried to subdue it, but he got… sliced in half! Some of the crew took their final shots, but that freak cut them all to pieces! Jenny tried her hand, but the result was the same. It's sheer luck she's not at the bottom of the sea."

"Dense fog, a wrecked Ship of the Line, and dead crewmen." He shook his head. "This really is the wrath of the dread pirate after all…!"

"Where've I heard that before?" the teen asked.

"Never you mind, Son." He said. "Where's Jennifer now?"

"Somewhere on board." Bradley said. "I haven't seen her since we got back on board. She's itching for a rematch with that thing, if I remember right."

"Thank you for information." He took in a breath. "Now, if you could get back to your aft cabin, that would be—!"

"Hold on a second here!" the boy out reached a hand. "Did either of you see a little boy running around somewhere, on the security cameras or something? About a few feet tall, wearing jeans and shirt with a black stripe?"

"Sorry, Son." He shook his head. "You'll have to check with security after the lockdown's been lifted."

"Wait!" that spiky quaff of auburn shook, fiercely, disbelievingly. "What're you saying!?"

"I'm saying you must return to your quarters, immediately." He pressed, gently. "I've already dispatched the crew on maximum alert, armed patrols and all. And I don't want to hear how they've detained merely a teenager or a boy when they should be looking for our uninvited guest!"

"But – my little brother's out there somewhere!" he exclaimed. "What if that thing get him first – how _dare_ you tell me to go back to my room at a time like this!!"

"And how _dare_ you address the captain with such contempt!" In, Mr. Krust had to throw his two cents. "You should be lucky, young man, that Captain Casque does not detain you on the spot!"

_You're one to talk!_

"Minor in possession of a firearm!" the suit counted out by several dark, thin fingers. "Receiving stolen property, insubordination, disturbing the peace – shall I go on? You should hope I don't, Mr. Carbuncle! Now, put down _my_ rifle and return to your cabin at once! One more word out of you, and the crew will just happen to _lose_ you somewhere in the cargo hold till we drop anchor!"

"God, you're as bad as your kin!" the boy groaned. "You don't want to help me? Fine – I don't really care – but don't think for a second I'll stand by while you sit on your ass! I'm going to find my brother! Don't try to stop me!"

A sudden screech, the teen had turned on his black heel already and was half past the doorway. He outreached a hand – a gesture futile, as Mr. Carbuncle had lost himself within the ship by a simple hard right.

"Bradley, wait!" he called.

"My _rifle!!_" the tall, dark Krust whined. "_Aw_ – what the heck do you think you're doing, Captain! Get security on the horn – I want that boy arrested! Do you understand me!?"

His sigh was but a moan thick with disgust. His hand behind on a blind quest, yet it proved successful at the touch of cool, hard plastic. His arm untwisted, neutrally just before it brought up the squared microphone to his chapped lips.

"Yeah, I understand." The "T" button depressed. "This is Captain Casque. Attention! We've a couple of friends running loose – last spotted somewhere on the upper decks. One is about five-nine, Caucasian with spiky, auburn hair. The other is about three feet tall, Caucasian wearing jeans and a shirt with a single, black stripe. Should you spot either of them, escort them immediately to the aft cabins! That is all."

"You're just going to let him go!?" Daddy Krust boggled at the thought. "Are you _mad!?_ I'll have your head for this, you know!"

Thoughts aplenty, a torrent of frustration and anger that threatened to consume all who dared toe its frothy water, the utter anger, frustration, and rage condensed aptly into his blunt villanelle. Rather clean, it was compared to another word of four, simple letters.

"Just shut up!" he frowned.


	18. Chapter XVIII

XVIII

"You spit-shined bucket of bolts!" the lanky girl shot, crudely behind her intent drag. "This is undignified! What do you think you're doing!?"

Brittany and Tiffany comfortably proud standing on their shoes, elegant and utterly strange, Jennifer had been quick to humble them by swift tugs on their fine collars; there was no time for discretion or finesse. Out of the fog and into the hall, the weight a squirming, fidgeting mass as she dragged them for that imposing, door of solid core flanked by a keypad. Tools aplenty, inside they both should be well safe.

"You heard Captain Casque." Jenny huffed. "We've an intruder onboard – and I'll be damned before I have the Krusts' rich blood on my digits!"

"Look that intruder got your oil on his hands." Tiff shot, too. "What's wrong? Couldn't handle a punk buccaneer? Didn't I _tell_ you there was something up with Spain – didn't I, Brit!?"

"Daddy nor the captain foresaw this, did they?" the thin weight moaned. "How were they supposed to know!?"

"TV, Internet, Newspapers!" The smaller weight exclaimed. "I _told_ you the coasts were nothing but bad road! Now look where we be!"

"If this is the hall outside our cabin, just drop us off here." Brit said. "We hadn't the chance to put away our evening wear!"

"Fashion and accessories!?" She frowned. "Is that all you two think about!? We're all in danger! Your gowns will be there when you get back!"

"We're… _not_ going back to the cabin?"

"Sorry." She said. "With that freak running loose, I've no time to baby sit. Instead, I'm putting you two where I know you'll be safe. Solid-core door, enough munitions to start a small war, you'll be squared away. If something does happen, try not to shoot up the boat like Beirut."

"The armory!?" Brit's eyes must have crossed. "But why!? Daddy said not—!"

"Daddy's got his hands full with the captain." She said. "Brad's got his tied up with Tucker. Besides, it's not Daddy Krust who's got you by the collars – it's me! If he's got a problem with it, he can take it up with me _after_ I deal with our little friend."

"You'd better be a robot of your word, Jennifer!" Brit warned, pointlessly. "I wouldn't be you should he prove otherwise."

"I'll deal with it later, I said." She sighed. "Besides, we're here."

The door of choice, imposing and plain that loomed over her pigtails by half a foot, it was the flanking keypad that caught her eye. The squirming weights suddenly dead, they met the floorboards with a shifting thud.

"You damn tin can!" Tiff grumbled. "You'd better pray there _is_ something out there after _this!_"

"Just give her the benefit of the doubt, dear cousin." Brit said. "We'll stick it to her later, should need be."

"Glad to hear it." Boots heavily carried her aside. "Now, if you don't mind, could you please open the door?"

The girl lanky pushed to her angled feet with a grunt, thin heels clacking vacantly they carried Brittany for the keypad. A gentle bleat, a little less than a dozen in sequence, the lock retreated into the doorframe with a _clock._ The common knob twisted with ease as inside her heavy boots hurried her.

"I must say your dad has an impressive collection." She nodded. "Plenty of guns and ammunition here. I'd say make good use of it. Use blades and melee weapons only if you must!"

Behind clacking heels, inside casually strolled a clanging almost equal to her metal boots. Tiffany Krust no higher than her bosom faux, yet it seemed her feet had grown larger in a matter of seconds – it was the large armor on her small boots. Greaves, for lack of databases, that just covered the small insteps and a bit past her toes, each stood a stout, bearded blade no higher than halfway up the thin shin. Each armor piece bedecked with a pair sharp wings at the heel, they would make for one nasty back kick.

"And just what the heck are those?" she pointed.

"My grieve edges, fool!" Tiff's metal sole met the tile with a clang. "You don't want a piece of them, trust me. One fool did a good, long while back, and he's got the nasty-ass scars to prove it."

"If you're looking for a rematch with Sheldon, forget it." A servo buzzed as she shook her head. "You can settle your differences later. Make yourselves comfortable, 'cause you're not leaving this room till Captain gives the 'all-clear'."

"Honestly, Jennifer." Brit shrugged. "You don't honestly believe this room will keep us, do you? What if we simply leave? What will you do then?"

"Oh, don't worry." She smirked, wickedly. "I don't expect you to listen to a damn word I'd said. Hope breakfast was good and large, 'cause you're going to be here a while."

Boots clanged, intently as they carried her swiftly out the door; she was certain she stood close by for some reason. Out, Tiff held a hand in protest weak.

"Wait a damn minute!" the little girl growled. "What the _hell _do you think you're doing!?"

"Have a nice sit!" she waved.

Armor clanged angrily loud! Brittany held out a hand in vain, dark eyes wide in utter astonishment while Tiff tried to close the gap. An effort wise but utterly futile, Jenny had quickly refitted the door back into its frame, and a vacant _clock_ tickled her tympanums. A banging irate rang out no higher than her bosom, a guilty reward!

_I always wanted to do that!_

"_You goddamn piece of scrap!_" Tiff's threats were but muffles through the solid core. "_When I get out of here, it's just going to be you and me! No guns, no toys – just good old fashioned ASS-KICKING!!_"

"_You know,_" her tympanums hard pressed to catch Brit at all, "_that language truly is unbecoming of a Krust heiress. Perhaps if we were to be a bit nicer, she'll let us out._"

"_Just SHUT UP!_" Tiff shouted. "_Doesn't this damn thing have a doorknob or something?_"

"_Yes, if you were to stop banging on the damn door for one second, you'd notice it jutting out like all other doors._"

"Sorry!" through, she called; the knob suddenly stiff rattled in her grip. "But you're not getting out till I say so—!"

A simple tug, her servos' grinding whirs a burning drawl – and simply the knob clattered onto the floorboards like the useless scrap metal it had suddenly become!

"_Goddamn it!_" Tiff yelled. "_The damn bitch yanked the doorknob off! We're stuck!_"

"_What does that mean!?_"

"_Goddamn it – means were stuck here!_" Tiff yelled again. "_Swear to God, the minute we get out of here, we're turning you to scrap! You hear me – you're a scrap pile already!_"

"_And your paying for damages to the door, too!_"

She sighed.

---

Adrian II a maze, a labyrinth of corridors narrow and similar, it was a miracle Sheldon found his way back into the Wakeman cabin. Little Tuck unconscious in the gentle, weary cradle of his arms, relief flowed through them when he finally laid the boy on the bed. Here, the boy would be safe at the very least; it was a shame that he could not share the luxury.

Everyone aboard in peril, he took quickly to his staff. Certainty eluded him, predictably. He was not sure what he could do, but something – anything was better than waiting for inevitability's swift acts!

"Stay here, Tuck." He said through a shaky breath. "Stay here and you'll be safe. Jenny, Brad, even I… we'll all be back soon."

"But Mommy…!" the little boy groaned. "I don't want to go to bed! The evil raccoon thingy inside is going to kill me!"

"That's… great, Tuck." He sighed. "Maybe I should've chucked the Skol bottle instead. Brad's going to have a cow, I know it!"

The field day off for a long way, his churning gut firmed with resolve renewed. One way or another, that freak must be stopped!

_If I were a pirate, where I go first – besides the nearest pub?_ He thought, intently. _Plenty of expensive liquors and furniture, yet it seems it was more interested in the intangible. It shouldn't be a fool's errand with the crew and us aboard. Misdirection and theatricality are potent agents indeed, hence the wreck and the fog. So knowing that, where on this ship would I go first in order to create the panic I need…?_

—An irritable buzz, erratic flickering of lights, eyes rolled swift for the ceiling. The ceiling lamp was caught in an array of flash and glimmer plenty, each flicker successive more few and far between before—

—_Darkness!_ _The hell did the lights go!?_ —

—The lamp went out completely. The few, small, bulbous outcroppings of glass dappling the walls' baseboards, they barely illuminated that which only stood before them. It took but a minute for his eyes to adjust, appropriately.

"Breakers disabled!" it came over the PA. "Backup generators activated. Emergency lights are on."

"The breakers!" he cursed. "I should've known…."

"Mustn't sleep…!" the boy groaned again. "Raccoon will eat me…! Mustn't sleep…! Raccoon will _eat me…!_"

"And I thought I an otaku." He shrugged—

The door was loud by the ornate knob's sudden rattle – he took to his stance with _bo_ at the ready. The glint of brass turning only but a quarter, the slatted door gently swung open – Sheldon wished maintenance were a bit more lax at their job! Shoes carried his newfound guest inside with subtlety, hidden by the shade except for two limbs of white at point, deliberately – purposefully in a crook…

_Gun!_

He took not a chance, sneakers squealing against the floor as they hurried him for the target. A grunt burning, caught in his throat, the iron staff made his presence known, surely by a wide swing. A hell of a _knock_ tapped his drums as his piece of metal certainly met the steel of his target – a lengthy, black rifle free from opposing hands, skittering past an emergency light. His back kick spinning followed through, the thin sole firm pressed against his own upside the darkened head. The opponent toppled to the boards with a thud blunt, too meeting the nearby light by the face—

_A woolen vest topped by an ovoid head and red hair in large spikes…!_

"Oh – damn…!" For more than words, he was at a loss!

"_Sheldon!_" Brad greeted, harshly. "The _hell _was that for!?"

"Damn it, Brad!" back, he batted it. "Don't scare me like that! I thought you were that freak!"

"I know Brad-miester could use a makeover, but that's not the way to do it!" the red head took his time up lifting to his feet. "Man, I thought you were going to take my head off!"

"I'm sorry, okay?" he moaned. "Can we move on, please?"

Metal scratched the hardwood, by the barrel, frame, and the plastic stock as Brad reclaimed his lengthy piece.

"Fine with me." He hoisted it level to his chest. "No damn time to waste!"

"Where'd you get that gun?" he asked, simply.

"Ask what's left of the First Mate." Brad sighed. "Besides that, have you seen Tuck at all? I've been all over the place – I've got to find him!"

"Take it easy, Brad." He held out his free hand. "Tuck's safe. He's on the bed, taking a nap when he's not mumbling 'bout evil raccoons."

The room was alive, fleeting by quite an audible sigh.

"Oh – thank God." Brad took in a breath. "Thank you so much, Sheldon! You just saved me one heck of a talk with the 'rents!"

His eyes rolled, greatly by the dark's thick impunity.

"Wonderful…."

"Now that Tuck's off the list, what should we do now?"

He blinked.

"You're asking me??"

"Why not?" Back, Brad asked. "Not like anyone else here's got a clear head on his shoulders."

"What 'bout our traveling mystic?" he shrugged. "Surely, he knows something 'bout this, don't you think—"

"Solomon's AWOL!" Brad sigh was bitter with utter disgust. "What else is new? After this, I wouldn't put too much bank into anything he says. I don't know why but there's something 'bout him, something I really _don't _like – _besides_ leaving us for dead!"

"I don't know 'bout that." He said. "Maybe he's stuck somewhere and can't get out."

"Either way, we can't count on him." Brad said, firmly. "It's up to Jen and us. And since you're more brains than all of us, I'm asking you – what should we do?"

"Alright." He took in a breath. "If that's the case. I suggest we move to the power breakers. We're at a disadvantage already in the fog, let alone the dark. Besides, the crew doesn't have to die, needlessly 'cause they can't see what they're aiming at."

"Then again, I don't think a little something like visibility's going to stop that freak of the Devil." Brad noted.

"Don't complain." He said. "It's better than nothing. Jenny's will need more than moral support when she takes on that thing. After power's restored, I think it'd be best if we find out where Solomon is – and if need be – find out what's he's been up to during this mess!"

"Alright!" Brad nodded. "Good plan."

---

"Good plan, my butt!" Brad cursed. "Shell, do you've any idea what you're doing?"

Down the decks and through the hull, to the ship's power breakers they went. The engines' boisterous thrumming, dark metal abundant resonated with every stroke of the pistons many; he could barely hear himself through it all – let alone the Asian flanked by the open panel.

"Would I be doing this if I didn't?" Shell asked back, loudly. "Just shut up and let me think for a second!"

"How could _anyone_ think through this racket?" he shrugged. "I can barely hear myself think!"

"Will you - hold _ON_ for just a second?" The hunch of maroon deepened, intently. "I think I just might have it. Man, what a mess…!"

The breaker's panel had openly eased with gentle guidance, the two closer to their task by a single step once Shell had propped the token latch off its catch. The objective easy as flipping the switch, it seemed they had taken back _two_ strides – Sheldon's gasp but a strained whisper through the resonance. Brad had shined the rifle's bright lamp, aptly; the task all the more complex at the sight of wires many a color, naked and shredded. The warped piece that held the toggles fast dangled from a few, colorful threads.

"You can say that again." He sighed.

"The panel's useless." Sheldon noted, needlessly. "It seems the freak simply pried it off, and then it went to work. It's going to take an electrician to patch this thing up."

"And just how're we going to get one out in the middle of the ocean, pray tell?" he asked, smartly. "The yellow pages? You're the closest thing we have."

"Don't have to tell me twice, you know." Shell grunted. "I'm doing the best I can! One wrong move and I'm toast! Now hold that light steady. If I can just cross these two wires…!"

An arc hot of blue, a drawl of buzzing crackle, the lamp overhead blinked with weak flickers. One flicker long and strained, it grew bright with but a couple of ticks of the ever-jerking sliver fastened to wrist. Around the engine room, hard, sudden shifts barely fought through the boisterous thrumming as the halogens came brightly alive.

"I think I might have done it!" Shell exclaimed.

"_Might _have…?" his eyebrow kinked.

"Yes, _might _have!" Shell pushed to his sneakers. "I may've gotten the engine room, but we've yet to see if my patch job's taken effect elsewhere. We may have to come back for a second try, just so you know."

"That's fine." He said. "Now, where haven't we checked yet? We've cleared the decks, public areas, and whatnot. Engine room's clear from what we've seen, and still no sign of Solomon. So, where to next?"

"Did we properly check the cargo hold?" Shell finally turned on his rubbery heel.

"The cargo hold?" he blinked. "No…."

"I've a hunch we'll find him there." Sheldon said. "Before this mess, I heard he was overseeing the crew moving his crate back to the hold lest Miss Buckteeth has a fit. You know, that strange looking box with the bizarre emblem?"

"You're right." He nodded. "He's rather protective of it, and why after seeing what he keeps in there. It doesn't make sense why he'd spend all this time there."

"Perhaps something happened." Maroon shoulders perked in a shrug. "Either way, we still have to clear it 'fore going topside."

"Okay." He said. "So, where's the hold at?"

"Don't you remember?" Shell blinked. "It's that large room we passed through before we got here. Just retrace our steps and we'll be there. Plus, we can see if my repairs actually worked."

"Rodger that."

Hard weight off his shoulder, the achy muscles finally relieved, the olden rifle nearly clanked upon the metal floor of diamond patterns if not for the sling. He outwardly held it in casual offering.

"You want a crack at the piece?" he asked. "My arm's getting tired."

"I prefer my _bo_ staff, thank you very much." Shell held out a declining hand. "You need it more than me. I'm not comfortable with long guns a whole lot."

"Come on." Strained muscles made his arms bounced. "Take it. Give my shoulders a break."

"Don't be foolish." Shell shook his wide head. "A powerful rifle, yes, but its range is better served outdoors. That's why the First Mate had it out on the wreck. Inside, the five-five-six has little tactical advantage, whatsoever – 'less you want some hapless bystander a few rooms down to get a couple in the chest."

"I guess that's a 'no' then?" he asked.

"Duh, Brad." Those large, dark eyes rolled. "I've been using a _bo_ for as long as I can remember. I'm more comfortable with it than I am with briefs."

He blinked.

"I… didn't need to know _that_ much, Sheldon." He said.

"Forget it, Brad." Shell shook his head again. "Let's get going."

"Yeah, you're right." With a huff, the thick sling pressed firm upon his sore deltoids once more. "Man, I wish I was ambidextrous."

Paying his moan no mind, the Asian took his leave of the wrecked breakers – only to stop in the midst of a stride but a few feet away. Shell's wide chin touched the thin shoulder of maroon, expectantly, a large, dark eye gazed incredulous.

"You're the one with the gun." Shell said. "Aren't you taking point?"

"What?" He shook his head, fiercely. "_Again??_"

"Yes, _again…_" the Asian frowned. "Isn't Armor Lad primed for action?"

"Armor Lad's back in Tremorton, scattered across the kitchen." He took in a breath. "It's just little old me! You saw the old films from the early millennium! You walk faster than me – and the slowest person in the squad always takes up the rear with a SAW!"

"We're not _in_ Skyway Patrol." Shell furrowed his greasy brow. "And this isn't a battlefield – it's a pirate raid! Besides, it's just us two! What good's taking up the rear if you happen to drill one right in my back?"

"I wouldn't have to drill one in your back if you were packing!" he frowned back.

"I'm sorry but the armory's way upstairs!" Sheldon sighed. "It's just my _bo_ and I – take it or leave it! Now can we go _before_ the freak decides to sink this tub or would you just care to wait?"

"Alright, alright!" his hands took to the grips, both pistol and fore. "I'm going! Man, the crap I do for you, Sheldon – it's ridiculous!"

"Oh – _wah, wah, wah!_" With that wide head, Shell's eyes rolled again. "Would you care for some cheese with your _whine?_ I swear to God – you are such a baby!"

"I'm not a baby!" he growled.

"Of course not!" the Asian said, lightly. "You wear Pull-Ups! You're a _big_ kid now…!"

"Shut up!"

---

"Man, this is _whack!_" Small Tiff charged her fist into the air, content hardly by its sustenance fleeting. "We've been here _how long…?_ How long does it take to blast a pirate, anyway?"

Brit rubbed at her tired eyes. Squinting prolonged into the shade overwhelming for something, anything, already pain gnawed at the rear of her brain. Least for the emergency lamps, neither of them were blind, completely.

"Just wait till I get my mitts 'round that pencil-thin neck!" Tiffany content, beside herself within the choking grip of a seethe, her fingerless gloves slowly curled in a gesture rather apt. "Choking the life out of that twat – boy, it'll be worth the agro!"

"Dear cousin, don't get yourself riled up so soon!" she shook her head. "They'll be plenty of time for retribution, swift and just. But until the time she comes for us… if she even _does_ – lets just have a nice sit. Besides, I don't think that piece of rubbish even breaths at all."

"Fool, you heard that piece sigh and gasp!" Tiff shot. "There's got to be something to it, I just know it!"

"Perhaps you're fooling yourself." She said. "It may be no more than simple ambiance."

"You think I give a damn?" fingerless gloves rubbed at that pink cap, irritably. "No, I do _not!_ Locking us in here like geeks in lockers! She'll be lucky if I don't split her goddamn head open!"

"Will you just calm down for one minute—?"

"I would if I had some Jack Daniels – but _no…!_" Tiff grunted. "Not even a shot! Damn it – I knew I should've swiped a bottle from the galley. Least I'd have something to drink."

"Everything just _has_ to return to Tennessee whiskey, doesn't it?" thin fingers rubbed at weary lids again. "I didn't know you were such a closet alcoholic."

"Hey – when lots of browns are around, I frigging slug them down." The small girl claimed, proudly with naked knuckles at her saddlebag hips. "If it's just black, I send those suckers straight back!"

"Beggars can't be choosers, you know." She sighed.

"We the damn Krusts!" Tiff yelled. "We don't got to be beggars, you hear me? We tell the fools what we want, when we want, where we want, how we want! We don't got to answer to _nobody!_"

Her hand upon her perky breast, fingers probed into the pocket hidden behind the lapel. Dear cousin glanced her a heavily traced eye suspicious.

"The hell you think you doing?" Tiff's stomp was but a loud clang. "If you packing, you'd better let me know, pronto!"

"Will you calm down?" she frowned. "Even if I was, it's none of your business! And since you _so_ need a serious drink, it'd be a waste if I were to simply leave it in my coat."

"Wait a sec!" Snapped to attention, Tiff's armored boots knocked together at the arches. "You've been holding out on me this whole time!? What kind of cousin are you?"

"More of a responsible drinker than you!" she shot a dagger. "Oh – look what we got here…."

Object of dear cousin's affection caught in the light pinch between her fingers, it slipped out from behind the flap of her open jacket. Heavy traced eyes as wide as saucers. A tiny bottle narrowed by a pencil-thin neck, the rich and golden glow gently churned by her fingers' teasing jerk.

"Look what I got." She smirked. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"That what I think it is…?" Those wide eyes boggled, completely overwhelmed. "Please tell me that's what I think it is…!"

"A small mini-bottle of Gentleman Jack." She said. "It may not be Old Number Seven, but I'm sure you'll enjoy it all the same. Here you go."

Warm glow of gold suddenly overwhelmed by the dark, she had flicked it for dear cousin unwisely standing in the shade. Naked fingers gesturing a catcher's mitt, those heavily lined eyes had no problems snatching the prize out from oblivion. It took hardly a second for her ears to catch a subtle rip… but to see a fat cylinder of black roll from the shade, circle, and clatter on the tile.

"Ah…!" Tiff took in a breath. "That's what the doc ordered."

Boots with strange armor clanging out the shade, the stocky girl scooped up the cap with a quick bend at the waist.

"Think I'll save some for later." Said dear cousin.

"Good decision." She noted.

"Don't be confusing Old Number Seven for Sam Adams!" the girl snapped. "Such a crime – I ought to kick you upside your head!"

"Oh - will you come off it, for God's sake!" she moaned. "You're a Krust! You've made it… you won without lifting a finger! Stop snapping at everyone or it'll be the last _Gentleman Jack_ you'll get for a while—"

"You holding out on me again!?" Tiff grunted. "You'd better not!"

"That's my secret." She huffed. "Besides, I don't think it's a good idea to get smashed while you're wearing those… whatever they are. Especially those front blades…! Taking a knee for a split second and you'll be yanking your foot free of your shin."

"I'm not that stupid." Dear cousin dismissed. "When it comes to these grieve edges, I don't act the fool. That's for the fool living up on _Front Street,_ faking the fresh like that Shell-dork!"

"That why you insisted wearing those fashion disasters?" she sighed. "I must say there's nothing in our walk-in closet that would make the best out of those nightmares—"

"That's the whole point!" Tiff said. "They're not for looks, not meant to make even the hopeless of fools look cool, they're just for brawling – low-down, raw, dirty brawling. A simple kick to the shin would be a blessing compared to a cheap shot from these bad boys.

"Thinking of which, where's your piece? What if something goes wrong and that walking scrap heap breaks down? The heck are you going to do 'bout it?"

"You've a bit of a point, I say." Vertebrae popped as she let her neck roll. "Even if nothing happens, I don't think Daddy will blink twice at us if something goes missing. That's what dear Jenny's for, after all."

Pistols, rifles, weapons of melee, the armory was her oyster open, widely. Hardly a physical move, a tactic worth employing, she would certainly be better served if she had something that would take upon itself most of the hard work. A firearm, it shall be, not a long gun of ridiculous features or ill repute, but rather something a bit more compact that could fit with ease inside a single palm….

_Perhaps one of those old .45s Daddy brought back from Toronto…_

_Relative_ ease, that is…!

Hollow clomps clicking at her heels; her angled feet carried her promptly for the pistol rack. Variety a plethora of different styles, shapes, and calibers, stopping square before the row that dangled simple handguns by the curved guards, her weapon of choice was but an angled shadow hanging, precariously. A pistol simple and rather plain in design and appearance, the textured grip scratched at her palm as she claimed it from the rack. Caliber forty-five hundredths of an inch, it would surely knock anyone right off his feet with a simple squeeze of the black semi-circle.

"A forty-fiver?" Tiff blinked. "When it comes to packing, you don't mess around, do you, cousin?"

"I may not know much of ordinance, but I know a descent weapon when I see it." She noted, simply. "Several forty-five rounds, I'm sure any would-be attacker will _get_ the message if the blast doesn't carry him away."

"You mean the movies?" dear cousin said, flatly.

"Of course!" she smirked. "How else would I know? I'd rather fancy one of those Israeli hand-cannons, but I don't recall Daddy had any aboard. Last I saw, he kept several back at the estate."

"Whatever floats your boat." Dear cousin dismissed with a whipping wave of a fingerless mitt. "Just don't blaze yourself in the foot – or _me_, for that matter! You sure you know how to work it?"

Her free fingers atop the weapon, the weapon let out a telltale ratchet at her abrupt whim. Finger safe above the trigger, she let gravity pull it down to her side.

"Guess so." Tiff shrugged. "One round in, 'bout six more to go. You do know that, right? You got any spare clips for that?"

"Proper ammo's usually kept just below the weapon itself." She noted. "That's how I remember last time I was here. There should be some of these '_clips_' – and some ammunition boxes in those wide cubbyholes. Don't concern yourself too much."

"Just checking—!"

_BANG!!_

The door firmly fast in its frame let out a banging rattle – they both jumped with a yelp. Bang, _Bang – BANG!!_ Forced was the solid plank against its heavy bolts and solid lock at a powerful whim newfound, utterly futile without the code etched within her or proper knob. It stopped not Tiffany from taking up a stance… just a little behind and cattycorner from she.

"Tiff!" her whisper hoarse. "What're you _doing!?_"

"You the sister with the piece!" Tiffany's exclaim equally vacant. "You check it!"

"I'm not stepping forward!" she hissed. "Even with the gun!"

"You'd better make contact, if you know what's _good for you!_" Tiff's wide brow creased underneath that woolen cap. "You want that rust-bucket to know what I found you doing with Prima in the can back at school?"

She gasped.

"You wouldn't _dare…!_" she growled.

"Wouldn't I now…?" dear cousin grinned, devilishly. "I knew you had a big mouth, but god-_damn…!_ Now that was a Kodak moment if I ever laid eyes on one!"

"Tiffany _Krust…!_" her knuckles popped around the uncomfortable grip. "I swear – the minute we get out of this, I'll—!"

"So what _does_ it taste like, girl?" That wide brow perked. "Sweet nectar or thick sea water—"

_Bang, Bang – BANG, _rattled the door…!

"Nectar or brine, girl?" Tiff just had to press. "Which will it be…?"

"Alright – _fine!_" biting her shaky lip, she swallowed hard; it was the school lavatory all over again. "Don't think I'll forget about this! Um… _a-hem…!_ Okay, stranger! State your business!"

Not a shout, a growl, or even a grunt, silence suddenly thick in abundance… and nothing more…!

"State your business, I said!" her arm upwardly brought the simple sights level to her eyes. "Who are you, and what do you want? Whatever you want, just keep a level head on your shoulders. Already, this ship's swarming with crewman armed to the teeth, so don't push your luck! Just take whatever you want off the ship and get out of here. Am I understood—?"

"I understand quite well, you prosperous wench!" their visitor muttered, _bluntly_ thick with temperament worthy of the high seas, collected and calm yet just as volatile! "You dare to challenge me, you _fool!? _Show me – _YOUR SOUL!!_"


	19. Chapter XIX

XIX

The cargo hold a jumbled warren, many a size and dimension of boxes looming overhead, standing fast atop of each other, not even the bright halogens between the trusses could have shed but the thinnest ray through the mess.

"At least nothing's blocked the walkways." Sore arms eased the rifle to forty-five degrees. "Crates secured, nothing out of place that isn't already. I think that freak's been done here since the power breakers."

"You don't know that for certain." From behind, Sheldon noted. "He could be in hiding, waiting for one of us to slip up! Just keep that rifle at the ready, Brad. You don't know when you'll have to use it."

"This coming from _bojutsu_ master back there…?" he groaned.

"I'm playing it safe!" Shell said, loudly. "I haven't seen you use that thing. How do I know that it's not on full auto – rather, how do _you_ know…?"

"Actually…" he blinked, "I don't."

"Is that thing even loaded right?" Shell pressed.

"Yes!" he said. "See the magazine sticking out? It's loaded – trust me."

"Safety catch off?"

"Hell if I know." He shrugged.

"You'd _better_ know!" Sheldon exclaimed. "Misfire's not going to do us much good, is it?"

"Will you quit whining?" his eyes took a lap around. "We've got a job to do! Now, where do you think Solomon would keep that hideous crate in here?"

Find the crate, fickle Solomon could very well be near; that was an idea, after all.

"If he's overseen its movement from topside to here," the Asian thought aloud, "he'll probably put it somewhere where it won't get knocked around or have other junk fall on it. Let's see if this hold's got a makeshift clearing, Brad."

"Right." He nodded.

Pieces loose rattled in his weary grip while he hoisted the weighty barrel a little below the level of his shoulder. Opened – rolling gradually to a close, thick plastic scratched at his fingers whilst retaking the pistol grip. His loafers took turns before each other, one by one… down what was a narrow inlet – ducking beneath an eave jagged of fashioned timber. Hurried steps nipping at his heels, Sheldon finally covered his proverbial six.

"Hey, Sheldon." Free from under the ill-placed crate, his back uncurled from his hunch. "You said look for a clearing, right?"

"Yeah…!" a squared press pushed at his s-curve. "Move a little bit more, Brad – and… _uh – _there…! Yes, Brad, I did. Why ask so soon?"

"Want to take a wild guess what's in front of us?" he smirked.

"You mean—?"

"That's right!" he nodded.

Circled by crates wooden and bleak, a lone box stood in the midst of the clearing, its weathered bareness basking in the warm glow of the light. A little taller than he, its width approximately the very same, an emblem strange vacantly gazed at him with two eyes of multicolor below a twisting helix of dark, all in a squared field of an ancient shade of white.

"That's it alright." He nodded again.

"The lid's cracked open." Sheldon noted. "But… what's that thing?"

"What?" he blinked. "Where…?"

"Between the brim and the lid – don't you see?" a limb maroon pointed, pertinently. "Thick and dark, it's holding the lid open somewhat. It's like someone wedged a cloak there."

"Maybe it _is_ a cloak." He shrugged.

"Or _not._" Shell moaned. "Go check it out."

"And just what're you going to do?" he frowned.

"Morale support." Sheldon said, simply. "I won't be heading anywhere – I'll be right here if you need me."

"Gee – _thanks…!_" his eyes took another lap. "What would I ever do without you…?"

"Just go check it out, Armor Lad…!" Shell moaned.

"Okay – _fine…!_" he sighed.

Taking in another breath, reluctant loafers carried him for the crate; tip of the foresight inside square the circled sight before his eye, the two left never off that strange form dangling. Closer and closer, a loafer perpetually in front of the other, that form odd was not a cloak at all – blued denim did not seem to be a typical cloak-maker's fabric. Rounded and taut, the fabric had been split down the middle just below a bulbous outcropping, length no longer than his very legs…!

The ends of both pieces abrupt, cleanly cut cuffs had been folded, inwardly secured by heavy stitching; a sneaker limply dangled below each cuff.

_Oh God…!_

"Sheldon!" he called. "SHELDON! Get over here!"

"What?" back, the Asian called, typically; a third lap, his eyes took. "What you got?"

"I found him!" his shoulder swelled with welcome relief as off the sling slipped. "I found Solomon—!"

"Holy _cow…!_" Sheldon gasped over his hurried footfalls. "The hell happened to him?"

"Probably that freak got to him!" he laid the long gun against the crate, carefully by the barrel. "Come on, Shell – let's get the lid off!"

Ahead of him was Shell, promptly that rod of iron in the lead. The end piece meeting the lid's underside with a firm _knock_, strength surged within those loose arms of maroon, channeling all of it into the rod. Greasy, peaked features wincing and trembling, temples out pressing a thick vein or two, Bradley compelled himself to grab a piece of the rod.

"On three!" he said; Shell nodded whist taking a quick breath. "One… and two… and – _THREE!_"

Strength a synergy in haste, it was enough to lift the weighty lid up, off of limp Solomon, and back all the way on its olden hinges. The rod clattered on the dirty floor, stopping its roll against the crate while its master took to those cuffs of denim on his knees. Just behind Sheldon, Brad shifted himself, wisely.

"Okay, Shell." He said. "You drag and I'll catch, okay?"

"Whatever." His greasy cap shook. "The sooner he's out, the better!"

"Whoa." He smirked. "You're a poet and didn't know it! How delightful! Forget Ling Sheng-Su, you should seriously go into writing."

"Just shut up!" Shell groaned. "Okay – on three again. One… and two… and – _three!_"

Sounds of shifting cloth rough and coarse, Sheldon ensued his tug upon the denim ankles; Brad outwardly held open his arms, eyes locked on that out-slithering mass at the butt, the waist, the small of the browned back – exponentially expanding in his sight until he caught the figure by the pits of those neatly pressed sleeves. His nose reeled almost as the firm and hairless skin fell to within a centimeter of the bridge.

Upon the hard floor, Brad did his best to set the baldy down, gently – gravity made known at the last centimeter between the skull and the floor. The Asian glanced at him dagger sharp.

"What the hell was that for!?" Shell demanded. "We'll be lucky if he wakes up at all!"

"It slipped!" back, he simply shrugged. "One thing led to another, and… well – stuff happens."

"_Brad…!_" Sheldon growled—

"_Uh…!_"

The floored badly gently rocked his head, eyes caught in a deep wince – even the one hidden by the large patch.

"Solomon!" Shell exclaimed. "Come on, Sol – wake up! Wake _up!_"

"You've got some serious explaining to do…!" his wrinkled sleeves folded, crossly.

"_Uh _– what…?" a brown hand drew over equal dark features, stretch of flesh somewhat comedic for only but a fleeting moment. "What is going on…?"

"It's us, Sol." Shell's pasty knuckles tapped at that strange pendant. "Bradley and myself. Get it in gear, man. We're in serious trouble!"

By a grunt passing, the boy uplifted with a good yank from the abdominal. The chain thick around the brown neck rattled, complementary to the swift shake of the head. Sol shot at him his good eye suspicious.

"In Nabu's name, what is going on here?" Sol asked, simply… _typically._

"Actually, we've hit a little snag—!"

Sheldon finished not; Brad would not let him.

"You tell _us_, Solomon." He huffed. "And you'd better have one _hell_ of an answer!"

"Brad, what're you—?"

Shell finished not again!

"Like Shell was trying to say, we've seem to run across a bit of a snag." He would not let him; interjection, he should try it more often! "A densely thick bank of fog, an ancient sea wreck, and walking-talking, honest-to-God _skeleton_ running around when it's not slashing this ship apart!"

"A talking revenant, you say?" Sol said, simply; baldy must be playing dumb.

Nevermore!

"Don't play the retard with me, Solomon!" he frowned. "You've some nerve playing that trick again, and what do you know – the trick's gone ugly! Your little puppet tore apart the First Mate and a hearty chunk of the crew! Even Jenny would've been scrap if it didn't walk away!"

"It would've took a good slash at Tuck if it hadn't been for me!" Shell nodded.

"Is this some kind of sick _game_ to you, Solomon!?" His knuckles cracked so great, even his ears straining caught a simple pop. "That… that – THING nearly killed my brother – MY _BROTHER, _SOLOMON! Are we like replaceable toys to you!?"

"I oversee the movement of my crate, ensuring no harm comes its way, and I receive this hasty accusation!" Sol frowned, gravely. "This is the gods' just reward for aiding you on this fool's errand! I should never have stepped a foot aboard this vessel!"

Solomon in midst of rising to his feet, it was an effort easy yet rather tricky. A loafer on the pendant, all his weight channeled into the leg, Solomon's task but all the more hampered when his hurried arm snatched up the rifle. Tricky, indeed!

"Hold it right there!" a growl caught in his shaky throat. "You're not going anywhere 'till we get some answers!"

"Brad, what're you _doing!?_" Shell protested.

"Taking the bull by the balls and punching them clean off!" he exclaimed. "Now talk, Solomon! What's your little game this time? A pop quiz?"

"There is no game, boy!" Sol outwardly held his hand, peaceably… just like in the museum. "I have nothing to do with the goings on, currently aboard. I have been down here, trapped between the brim and the lid since we ran aground!"

"How convenient!" he sneered. "And just what were you doing between the brim and the lid, exactly?"

"Didn't you hear him, Brad??" Shell's wide eyes crossed. "He was checking his crate!"

"Listen to Mr. Lee, Bradley." Sol frowned.

"Mr. Al can talk for himself, Sheldon." A hoarse crescendo became his growl. "I want to hear it from you! What were you doing up there?"

"I opened my crate to see if my articles remained unscathed, leaning in." Baldy sighed, single eye taking a roll, mockingly. "Thank the gods they were. Suddenly, before I realized my up from my down, the ship had glanced something. The heavy lid came down and… everything deepened into a black oblivion rivaling Irkalla."

"You satisfied now, Brad?" Shell moaned. "We've got no time for these stupid games!"

"I don't care!" he exclaimed. "He sent a reveling-ant after us before—"

"'Revenant', I have told _you_ before!" Solomon noted, loudly.

"Whatever!" closer to that dark crown, he shoved the weighty barrel. "He sent a _thing_ after Jen and me before, and I've yet to see what proof that he didn't send another after us again! So what say you, Solomon? What proof do you have? Why should we even believe what you have to say? Why shouldn't I just drill one in your head right now!?"

"Brad!" Shell yelped. "What in God's _NAME_—!?"

"So what if everything truly is but a product of my necromancy?" Sol poised. "What if I did send another revenant to test your progress? Would it not be justifiable? I have told you before that this is the treacherous path you walk when pursuing the Sword of Heroes – you chose it! The revenant at Tremorton's temple of wisdom was play compared to the true terrors that lie in wait for you, and it is within my knowledge that this vessel might have stumbled upon one!"

"So you do know what's going on!" his brow furrowed. "I knew it! Spill the rest, Solomon! What the hell did you send after us this time!?"

"I sent no such thing after you." Sol replied with a shrug the best he could. "We are close to the sea, yet we are in the ocean still. With what corpse could I revive – the one on this wreck? How could I revive something I did not see with my only eye? Even if somehow I could, I would be the only one who truly knows how to do away with it."

"Not if I kill you here and now!" his trigger index curled and flexed.

"Boy, the secret arts are not bound by the existence of mortal men." Sol smirked. "For once unleashed, only the conjurer may exercise control somewhat. If the conjurer should die once the art has been preformed, any and all restraint he may have had will be forever gone and the art shall be unleashed in all its unbridled fury. If I did summon another revenant, doing away with me shall leave it free to slash whomever it pleases – and there would be not a thing you could do about it!"

Another growl escaped through his bared teeth.

"I seem to be the only one here who could possibly put an end to this sorcery." Sol said, grimly. "Killing me – do you wish to take such a fool-hearty chance?"

A sigh thick with reluctance, his pinning loafer pressed steady atop the hard floor once more. Quick to stand on his sneakers, Sol gladly took his chance. Dark hands dusted that blazer with a few, hearty, backhanded sweeps.

"Good decision." Sol nodded.

"You satisfied now, Brad?" Shell asked. "Can we get a move-on, please? God only knows what that thing's doing right now!"

"Alright." He sighed again. "You win this round, Sol. But don't mistake this for weakness – I've got my eye on you! No funny tricks!"

Sol kept focus on the strange bracelet fastened to his wrist, dismissively. The toggle strange slipping through the eye, the bracelet was but a dangling chain in the pinch. A _snap_ rang through the hold; the chain was thrust into a blazer pocket while Sol kept that strange toggle between his fingers. Thumbing that piece one around, it simply tapped onto the floor at whim intent—

The toggle bizarre but that, it grew upon the floor exponentially! As long as he was tall, it smiled at him, sharply by that glaring crescent. A set of three spikes ornate fixed upon the back, a sense of regret swept through him for any unfortunate graced by a trained back swing. By the lengthy, plain grip, Solomon scooped up the wicked scythe.

"Whoa…!" for words, Shell was at a loss.

"I said no funny stuff!" he frowned. "You mean to tell me you had that the whole time!?"

"So what if I did?" Solomon tapped the floor by the ornate spike of a pommel. "What business is it of yours? Kafizel my powerful tool, I must keep it hidden from curious eyes. And what better place is there than in plain sight?"

"I've got to see the specs on that thing!" Shell noted. "Nano-technology, am I right?"

"That is my secret." Sol dismissed. "If what you say concerning the revenant is true, we must make haste! We no more time to lose. Are you with me?"

"Depends." He shrugged. "Are you going to pull a rabbit out of your ass next?"

"Do not be ridiculous." Sol groaned. "Do not be so obscene, for that matter! It is rather unbecoming."

"Okay." He nodded. "Let's go then!"

---

"Our soles?" Brit blinked. "Why on earth would you want to see our feet for?"

"Party crasher can get a good look all he wants, girl!" Tiff stomped. "Kind of hard to do when he's got a blade upside his skull!"

"Be you wenches _daft!?_" Their guest exclaimed through the door. "I've said nothing of the sort! Should you wish to test my patience, I'll be happy to accommodate! Now open this door 'fore I open it myself!"

"If you think we're exposing ourselves – let alone our feet – you've got another thing coming!" she frowned. "That door's bullet resistant. It can survive even a five-alarm fire! Unless you're some kind of being with mystical abilities, you're not getting in. Even if you do, we've got a couple, nasty surprises for you! So just take what you want from the ship and go."

"I'd said it once, and I'll say it once more…!" the stranger said. "Show me _your_ _SOULS!!_"

"Look," she sighed, "if you've got a fetish or something, there should be a nice pair of stilettos my cabin—!"

"You truly be daft!!" the stranger yelled. "That does it – I'm coming in! Make way, you scurvy piece of shit!"

"You're not coming in, I said—!"

—_SHRIEK!!_

Through the darkness, her eyes could easily catch the cream of the door – how it had been violated by a single gash of black between it and the doorframe! A blackened sliver a little over half the length of her forearm, it was gone in but an instant – retreated out the side of the unwelcome guest at another metallic shriek.

The plank of cream swung ajar, uninhibited…!

_Oh no – the lock's gone!_

Feet apart, standing firm as angled shoes made possible, she trained the pistol square on the door. The pad of her finger on the crescent trigger, her heart leapt higher in her chest. A shallow breath, swallowing hard, it took all her power to keep that plain barrel relatively steady—

—But to jump at a _BANG!_ The cream door met the wall, the doorstop utterly failed.

There within the darkness stood a blackened figure, incredibly. One leg but a pair of bowed pegs, an arm impossibly thin, yet the sheer ridiculousness kept it not from wielding a pair of imposing weapons. Not modern arms nor arms of fire, they were but heavy blades. Lord only knew how many had fallen with but a single swipe!

Certain familiarity swept over her somehow; it was as though she had seen it, _felt_ this presence before sometime long ago – but where, _how…?_

"You think a mere door can halt Cervantes de Leon!?" its growl oddly hoarse. "You wenches _truly_ be daft! Now, make this task easy upon yourselves! Show me… your souls 'fore I tear you apart and search for them myself!"

"You want my soles, tuff guy!?" Tiff shouted. "Fine with me – you _got them!_"

With a battle cry weak and somewhat cute, dear cousin stoutly clanged past her. She held out a hand – too _late_; Tiff was already upon the assailant! A leg airborne, the other a twisted stand already upon the tile, Tiffany was into a short roundhouse halfway. That wicked blade but the extension of her toes, it would have behooved the assailant to move…!

Yet he didn't; he took the kick square in the side, the abrupt-ripping stab the queasy exclamation.

_Not a move, not even a flinch…!_ Her eyes crossed. _I've never seen a fetish _this_ strong before…!_

The kick delivered with a sickening sound, yet Tiff did not return to a common stance. Dear cousin stood there instead upon a single leg as she kept that blade snug inside its target; for what reason, she did not have a clue!

"_What??_" Tiff grunted and groaned, shifting in her awkward stand. "_What… _the – _HELL!?_"

"What?" she blinked. "What's wrong!?"

"My blade!" dear cousin yelped. "I… I think it's _stuck!_"

Pain gnawed in the back of her head, her eyes severely crossing.

"_Stuck!?_" she exclaimed. "What do you mean 'stuck'!? Just pull your boot out!"

"Would if I… _could!_" dear cousin's rounded face twisted in strain. "Damn it – should've _never_ bought the ones with barbs!"

"You wenches be boring me!" The stranger yelled, amazingly unfazed. "Your effort valiant, your courage saluted for challenging me – still futile they be. For I am immortal!"

Swords in one hand, the stranger seized Tiffany's jerking, wrenching leg. A bony hand upon knee-high sock of stripes; Tiff squirmed in disgust. The stubborn blade slipped from its side with but a simple push, yet… that hostile kept a firm clasp around those two-toned stripes.

"Freak, get off of me!" Tiff demanded, her sharp toes' pokes and prods weak against that grotesque arm. "That, and that – and _that!_"

Thin digits pressed against those two tones, harshly, inwardly sinking – blaring forth from Tiffany's mouth wide open a horrible cry. Those horrible, nasty fingers probed deep, fore knuckles barely shifting just above blushing cloth.

Tiffany screamed; she thought not secondly as her thumb ensured the rough hammer ready at a hair's notice. The trigger's loose slack taken, the simple sights aligned, heatedly below that tacky hat.

"Let her go this _instant!_" she demanded. "DO _IT!_ Drop her – or I'll _DROP YOU!!_"

"Foolish wenches!" it let out a cackle mocking. "For I have told you as I have told another just before – by Soul Edge's power, I am _immortal!_ Can you say the same…?"

Those barren knuckles jerked; Tiffany's wincing face all the more severe!

Within her heart – within deep her very soul, something greatly burned. Neither pain nor acidic, a strange sensation tickled in her chest, a warm sensation that eased her racing heart by several paces, trickling its way throughout. Shallow breaths deeper, trembling limbs suddenly steady, and knocking heels swiftly firm against the tile! The dark chaos abundant, everything within her was at a sort of peace.

_What's this feeling – this presence…?_

Her eyes batted incredulous before her furrowing brow narrowed her sights.

"She cannot." It hissed, sadistically.

"You – _freak!_" she growled. "See you in Hell!"

Her curling finger took the lead, her point made known by the crackling explosion before her. Against her reeling palm, the pistol nearly bucked out from her grip; in surprise, her heels knocked against the tile. To the side a small step, her sole pressed upon something awkwardly small like a pebble. Her instep brushed it away with a light sweep, the tinkling of metal tickling her ears—

Yet still the freak kept its ground firm on the tile, its piercing grip tight on Tiffany's leg darkly blushing – despite catching sight of that tacky tricorne whipping back… and quite a bit of a nasty splat on the wall—

—_BLAM – BLAM!!_

Again and again, she made her will known by every squeeze of the crescent trigger. Every fiery crackle as just as powerful, the tacky hat knocking back at every slug's burrowing entry, and the mess on the wall widely blossoming! Yet… those bony digits kept warm within the wet meat of dear cousin's leg, a single orb of milky beneath that tricorne narrowed, irritably.

Again the trigger receded against her finger's firm curl, and – nothing more…! Not a plume of fire, not even a crack – but the gun's simple clicks were a horrible tease.

_Oh no…!_

"You dumb-_ASS!_" Tiffany cursed through grinding teeth. "You're out!"

She was out? She did wonder why that blocky slide was close to her face after the last shot.

"It be useless, I told you!" it exclaimed. "By the great, prodigious power of the Evil Seed, I am more than mere flesh and blood, I am something more – something greater than most landlubbers could ever dream! I am that of your greatest fears! Davy Jones himself could not hold a lantern to me!"

Flipping out of her sore palm, her curling fingers caught the pistol by the drooping barrel. She had heard enough; the spinning gun but her frustration's extension, making like a throwing blade at her overhand toss. It was but a shifting shade in the dark – yet for some reason, that woolen cap of fuchsia had suddenly reeled.

"_OW!!_" Tiff yelped. "Fool - the _HELL_ was that for!?"

"Oops!" she blinked.

"_OOPS!?_" Tiff shouted. "I've serious pain and _now_ a headache – and ALL YOU CAN SAY IS OOPS!? I OUGHT TO KILL YOU, YOU MOTHER—!"

"You wenches be boring me!" it growled. "I no time for fooling games. Offer your souls, or your fate shall be of this wench here!"

The thing spun on its darkened boots, little Tiffany caught still in its barren grip, deliberately, purposefully. Suddenly swept of her single boot, dear cousin was no more than a doll fashioned from rags, a helpless mass as the girl was parallel with the tile. With a hoarse whisper of a grunt, Tiff flung her way past her – the crashing, smashing of glass the exclamation.

Isabella Valentine's exhibit behind an utter ruin, the mystifying plaque but two pieces of timber, richly stained, the glass enclosure a raw, gapping maw, slick with a fresh coat of crimson. Little Tiffany Krust lay awkward in a broken heap, a large spot on the wide crown blossoming nasty blues and blacks, her leg pierced severally deepening the knee-high's white into dark pink. Tiff in midst of her writhe, Isabella's sword graced the girl atop her back, broadly. It belly flopped onto the floor with a clattering rattle.

"Tiffany!" she hurried for the girl… as fast as her heels would allow. "_Tiffany!_"

"_God… damn…!_" a fingerless glove freshly wet drew down that large head with a cherry smear. "Anyone get the number off that Mack?"

"It's alright, Tiff." Shard incandescent tinkled onto the floor, off dear cousin after a hasty, backhanded sweep. "Just rest."

"Be you knowledgeable now?" it said. "Mere weapons cannot defeat the dreaded Cervantes de Leon!"

_Cervantes!?_ It was a shout within her mind. _Wait a minute – what am I thinking about? But… it's like I know it –_ him_ somehow…!_

"You've of little choice!" its bloody hand took back its sword – the room quaked, actually _trembled_ in wake of its hearty stomp. "Do as I command, and your suffering shall end, quickly. Fear not at all, miserable wenches. You should be grateful that you'd become a part of my power! Now give me… give me your SOULS!!"

If she could not beat him, perhaps she should attempt to appease him; that is what she thought when she plucked the pumps from off her feet. A black pair simple of Empire Leather heels direct from Jimmy Choo, it had cost Daddy well over $450 online – a small price to pay if she were to emerge unscathed, relatively.

"HERE!" she tossed them by the heel cups. "Take them! They maybe too small, but that shouldn't stop you from whatever little _games_ you should play…!"

That orb of milky white glanced at the pair, gazed at her, incredulously!

"Is this be some kind of _joke!?_" its entirety quivered in midst of its thick seethe. "You dare make foolishness of dread Cervantes de Leon – of Soul Edge!?"

"Isn't that what you wanted?" her eyes batted, chill nipping at her heels as she lowered to a sit. "You said you wanted soles – and here we are! Take a good look, 'cause this'll be the last you see of them!"

Her toes wiggled, teasingly; its aggravation made known by a yell irate, her pumps clattering away by a single, wide sweep of the longer sword.

"You scurvy brat!" it growled. "You truly be daft! Why should I waste precious time on your feet when I lust after something more valuable than booty! …_Treasure_ – mind you, should you be lost in a fog!"

Isabella's peculiar blade a reach away at a quick glance, she shifted herself before it – guns too far, it was an action last ditch. Swirling feeling within familiar and bizarre the center of it all, against everything her mind proved true, yet anything was better than waiting for the inevitable to fall by an overhead slash. Cold poked at her toes and soles, prodding its way up to just below her knees. Reeking of gunpowder, a dry, sulfur-like smell that made her want to gag, yet it kept not her backhanded sweeps from dusting herself spotless.

"No more games, scalawag!" she frowned. "No more runarounds – what do you _want!?_"

It grumbled, irritably again; a step back casual found Isabella's sword under the ball of her foot – as she wanted.

"Am I not clear?" that dark tricorne shook. "Must you be deaf or truly daft? I have said it several times before! I long not after booty of both persuasions – I hunger for _SOULS!_ Not of flesh and blood, but ones of immortality and sparks divine. Only that can sustain me lest I become a heap of bones once more. Perhaps the souls on this boat can sustain me till I find the true Edge…!"

An "oh" collective swept through the armory. Forward by an inch or two, Brittany scooted the blade; hopefully that milky orb did not see or that single, dark ear catch.

"Immortal souls!" she should have laughed. "A heap of bones! Please…! We're well into the Twenty-First Century. Mankind has come a long way from primordial beliefs and superstitions. You get an 'A' for acting and ambiance, but it's time to drop the act. It wouldn't be off to say that _Armada Espanola _isn't but an knot from here!"

"If… it's all an act, girl…" From her lain heap, Tiff let out a wet, blushing cough, "how can a true chump take seven forty-fives to the face and keep talking… let alone keep standing?"

She blinked – her eyes crossing, painfully once her lids widely parted!


	20. Chapter XX

XX

Another son of Adrian II fallen long before her, lain in a miserable heap of many a ragged, crimson streak. A long, deep kiss planted upon the thin woodwork, his equipment load bearing as untouched as the olden AK away but a foot from the limp, curling grasp. Poor man had not the time to train it, properly before he was cut to the ground.

Past her thick knee-highs carried her by an unfortunate several, tied together by a few blushing dribbles upward for the upper decks; the dread's way was painfully clear.

_It must be going for the captain! _The process made Jenny nod. _Crew but fodder – as they already are – it'd already be inside the bridge by now._

Within the upper decks, as well, sat the armory behind that plain door and her party's grudgingly reluctant hostess—

—_BLAM – BLAM… _It nicked her tympanums acute._ BLAM – BLAM!! _—

—Just as she left them.

"Brit – Tiff!" she gasped. "Just my luck! I swear to cogs _you're_ going to get it if you're just practicing potshots!"

Her torso forward, knee joint already up in a crook – she had not the time to place down her boot when from behind something jostled! Her pointy toe touched the hardwood with barely a tap, the rest of her boot following its lead whilst she twisted around, slowly. Dark blackness enlightened solely by those ones small of crises, her eyes took a little longer adjusting.

The unfortunate lain in a pile long behind, yet it squarely moved at the hip. Her vision suddenly blued at a process' whim, the shifting body but a fleeting hue of mustard yellow encroached by a crawling shade of navy. The poor man long since dead, yet something from around the corner perpendicular gave him a nudge – something hot with life!

"Did you hear something a second ago?" someone whispered. "Like an exclamation or something?"

"After the engine room, I'm lucky to hear anything at all." back, someone else whispered. "And stop toeing that poor guy – he's dead. And _you!_ What's with the incense – and will you _stop_ throwing it around?"

"I must ensure that the long deceased receive a proper jilting." Yet another replied, too in a whisper. "This ship does not need another phantom aboard. I urge you to see the point, if you will."

Bickering amongst them pointless and inane, perhaps the freak had more within its sleeve despite the ratty, grungy cloth. Slowly, carefully, her wide boots took turns before each other, moving her for that corner. Davy Jones' little helpers, she will be sure to send them all back down into the sunken locker.

"Man…!" the first sniffed, wetly. "I'm _seeing_ points all over the place! Put that stuff away, pronto!"

"Surely, you jest." The latter said. "It is but incense, some of the finest I had purchased before I had left the Near East. It may be strong, but I am sure you cannot _see_ things that cannot."

"Put it away, mother—!" the first demanded.

"Drugs are bad, don't you know." The middle interjected within a time's nick.

Boot forward but a foot away from the corner, it twisted her back and her paneling met the wall rather _firmly_. Amongst the bickering, they surely could not have heard it—

—"Quiet, you two!" the latter hushed. "I believe I have heard something…!"

Perhaps they did!

_Great!_ She would have cursed. _Guess it's now or never!_

A loud shout blaring in the corridor, she leapt around the corner and into the fray ensuing. The point man first, she seized him by the neck pencil thin; the drywall in cracking wake of that large, wide head did little to keep the others from engaging. Too, one's limbs went for her neck. The crook of the white sleeve soiled with her grease, it kept him not from attempting a sort of key lock. A swift kick to the back – the coughing gasps ended that effort, promptly! The cracking of drywall behind was but music to her tympanums.

The third proved more than difficult. Out of the blackness, a hand just as dark seized her by a pigtail – her paneling meeting the floorboards with a rattling bang! Pushing up to a stretch, a crescent thin slid onto the floor before her – its sharp belly nestled between her neck panelings, cleanly as something shoved down her head!

"It would be wise for you to yield, assassin," the latter said, formally deep in a baritone, "lest a writhing, decapitated body be the last of what you see!"

"That!" The former exclaimed. Something small tapped onto the back of her head. "Or I can just drill one right in your brain. In the right spot, they'll be very little blood."

"Are you two out of your minds!?" The middle, too, exclaimed. "It's defeated. Unless you've forgotten to take your Gingko this morning, we've a frigging reveling ant to jilt!"

"If I had said it before," the latter sighed, "I shall say it again! It is a 'revenant' – RE-VEN-ANT!"

_Where have I heard this conversation before…?_

A whir boisterously loud, lamps above alive with many a crackling, buzzing flicker, the floorboards finally brightened to their natural warm stain. The sharp crescent's tang at her right thick and blocky, the blade glared at her, sharply by a single eye of gold. Below – rather – _above_ the tang sat three, pointy prongs, a back swing would have surely done more than inwardly bash her head.

"_Aw…!_" the middle moaned. "Good to see my repairs finally took effect."

"What the _hell??_" the former exclaimed, the small, round circle lifting off her head. "_Jenny…?_"

"Brad?" she blinked. "Shell…? And the thug right above me just has to be Solomon. Am I right? Am I…?"

The latter replied not by words, rather it was by the lifting of that weight off her head. Carefully, she pushed back up to a stretch; Kafizel underneath outwardly scraped by the spine. Slowly, she brought a boot up from underneath and gradually pushed to her feet. The flooring scratched beneath her wide, spinning heels.

Sheldon from out the wall, tending to his greasy cap of jet black with a tender hand; the _bo_ staff a useless rod on the floor. Bradley rubbed at his woolen belly by a free hand, the other fingers content with the wrap around the rifle's pistol grip. Auburn spires jerked in midst of the boy's haggard cough. Solomon, fickle teen favorite of everyone, simply stood there with his sharp, death angel in hand.

Dark hand free reaching behind, momentarily, it came out with a mound humble of violet, incandescent sparkles; olfactory sense was tickled rich of myrrh with perhaps a hint of frankincense. Fingers subtly parting, his hand made like a shaker, sprinkling that powdery violet upon the fallen crewman, thick lips mouthing a chant of some sort. Upon the last crystal's fall, his powdered hand made a four-pointed sign similar to that of an orchestra conductor.

"How I envy you, fallen man." Sol said, cryptically.

"What do you mean?" she blinked.

"I shall tell you when the time is right." Solomon shook his greasy head.

Bradley's dark eyes crossed whilst caught within a gag.

"Oh – _God…!_" the boy snorted. "Sol – what did I just _tell you!?_"

"I already had forgotten, so to speak." Solomon dismissively mused. "But it appears I have wasted good incense for not."

"What do you mean?" she sniffed. "I like it, at least – it tickles my olfactory sense like nothing else. It smells… wonderful."

"Perhaps not 'for not'." Those neatly pressed shoulders shrugged.

"Why bother with it in the first place?" asked Shell. "I've plenty of incense holders and potpourri pots back at home. It'll find a welcome home there."

"I carry this not for air-freshener nor for ambiance." Sol took a knee at the corpse. "Rather it is more for a proper jilting, regardless of circumstance. Dependent upon the mystic whim of the murderer – should he have one - the soul may eternally wander or may remain in its shell. Should it choose the latter, the body may rise again, merely to feast upon or simply murder the living. My incense, my chant, and my finger signs ensure the soul finds its way to the afterlife. But these cadavers are different."

"Lifeless, dead, kaput – slashed more than a hapless teen at summer camp," Brad snorted, "they all look the same to me."

"What's wrong with them?" she asked. "They're already dead – that's supposed to be wrong."

"Their souls." That dark head shook. "I cannot find their souls, not a simple spark in any of the cadavers we passed. That is what is wrong."

"Any chance that a reveling ant—"

"_Revenant…_" Sol pressed.

"Whatever." Her head shook. "Any chance a – '_revenant_' – could absorb them into itself the second it cut them down?"

"Should it be cursed by the evil blade?" he asked. "Yes, it is possible."

"It _is_ possible!" she, too, pressed. "I saw it do it the second it cut down the First Mate on the wreck. The same went for the team he brought aboard. Who knows how many more it killed since it's been here!"

"About another eight we found on our way up here." Shell rubbed his neck. "All crewmen."

"Tucker!" she took in a worthless, hasty breath. "Bradley, did you find him!?"

"He's safe in our cabin." Brad held out a hand. "Don't worry. That was my job, anyway. Not that the Captain or the Krust patriarch would understand…."

"Jennifer Wakeman." Within her head bellowed the voice of the captain. "Jenny _Wakeman…!_ This is Captain Adrian Casque – do you read me…?"

"Speak of the devil." Her finger met a piece of her tympanum, a _click_ when the very piece depressed. "This is Jenny Wakeman. What more can I do you for?"

"Oh, there you are!" the old salt replied. "Good thing, too."

"As I said," she nodded, "what can I do you for?"

"What's your status?" he asked.

"Wakeman Party is present and accounted for." She shrugged. "Brad's little brother is back in our cabin, so don't you worry. Currently, we're on our way for the upper decks."

"Good." He said. "Have you or the crew properly dealt with our intruder yet?"

"I would want to say yes, but I can't." she sighed. "It seems he… _it_ – whatever is kicking your men's collective butt. The First Mate's gone, so are ten other men, at least!"

"That's not good, Jenny." The old salt said. "Not good at all…!"

"You don't have to tell me twice, Captain." She frowned.

"Yet I did!" The captain said. "You don't understand, Ms. Wakeman. I've a fresh report from surviving members of Jacques' team. They're aboard and explosives have been planted on the wreck. They're going to blow them any minute!"

She blinked.

"But—!" her ghost at a loss for words. "That'll kill the hull! We're all going to sink!"

"(That's what _I _said!)" exclaimed a voice from another, yet distant and mute. "(But does he listen to me? Not just no – but _hell_ no!)"

"(_Goddamn _it, shut up!)" The old man barked. "(You're not _helping!_) Since they're in the process of setting up the detonator, you've little time before the plunger drops. You absolutely must throw the intruder overboard before then!"

"You're trying to blow it up with the wreck?" she smirked. "Man, that's mean… I kind of like it!"

"I concur." Shell nodded, eagerly.

"You've a sort of imagination, I gather." The Captain said. "You figure it. And before this old salt forgets, there's been a report of shots fired just now – about a deck below us. I'd move that skirt up there, if I were you—"

Finger on the button, the Captain's hoarse presence kept not her free hand from landing on her face in loathing.

"Oh – Jobs," she winced, "I completely spaced it—!"

"(I _knew_ you heard it!)" The other voice yelled. "(Since you're going up there, have the redhead drop off the rifle whilst near the armory. In my cabin or by the armory door, I'll send for it after this crisis is over. I'd better not see a single pockmark anywhere!)"

"(Guns and ammo – is that _all_ you think about?)"

"(What's it to you, anyway?)" The other voice posed. "(Not like it's _your_ collection you have to keep an eye on! Some of the crew have sticky fingers, tell you what!)"

She frowned.

"Are you two finished?" she asked.

"(Depends if this old salt would care to take this outside!)

"(Are you off your _gourd—!?_)"

"E-_NOUGH!_" she yelled. "Am I the only one who cares what's at stake!? 'Cause God – it's like an uphill battle and we've _no_ leadership! I swear, when all this is through, I'm personally turning this yacht around and we're headed back to Florida – _Schwarzwind's _ire or not!"

"But – But… But!" the captain finished not.

She would not let him.

"No – _NO!_" she yelled. "I – _am_ the – Ro – bot, and I'm sick of this infighting! How any of you got to where you are today is beyond my processing."

"(You started it!)" The other voice exclaimed, pointedly. "(There'll be no circus for us!)"

"(Don't you drag me into this, you _little—!)"_ The old salt growled. "(Wait… _circus??_)"

Again, she let out a sigh.

_Why I bother, I'll never be certain…_

---

Pain content gnawing at the back of her brain, her eyes took their time uncrossing. Walking, talking zombie of purple awash in the bright light when on the fluorescents switched, she should have fainted.

"How?" Brit shook her head, fiercely. "_How??_"

"This battle cannot be won, dear child." Closer, it took a step, hissing its way. "Your jests dismissive and futile. By the Edge's prodigious power, I am immortal. You cannot say the same nor can she in the heap. Though there be something said of your tenacity. Perhaps your souls will make a fine meal."

"You're serious, aren't you." She took in a shaky breath. "I don't know what in God's name you are, but you're not laying a… _bone_ on either of us. You've plenty of others around – go snack on them!"

"My dear wench, I already have." It sniggered; her eyes opened wide. "A strange age I have woken into, gadgets and trinkets beyond what I had dreamt in my prime, still a cardinal rule of piracy exists. That'd be no witnesses!"

The crew practically lost by a couple slashes of those blades incredibly strange, the Wakeman cavalcade fared not better, even little Jennifer – and her father…! Her capricious parent, the only one left since mother had spirited away rather abruptly, tersely; fate had scathed dear cousin a bit more harsh, uncle and aunt both by a single swipe. The large estate not at all without those who had it built, she could not let that happen!

She _would not_ let that happen!

"I'm not much of a fighter." She sighed. "I'd rather have others do it for me, though today, I don't seem to have that luxury anymore. Not a damn thing I can do about it, so go ahead, you freak."

Seemingly resigned, she let her forward knee slowly buckle. Deep within, she stood aside! The strange presence was free to flow; it seemed as though it knew of what it urged. That made one of them, at least.

"Do as you wish."

"Brit!" Tiff exclaimed, weakly. "_Brit…!_ Girl, you on the pipe again!?"

"Not at all." Her head shook. "Though a drag sounds good about now."

_One, for the money…_

"Wench, your courage admired." Closer, it came; it grinned, toothy. "Fear not, for Soul Edge will make this quick. 'Fore the final blow, say your farewells for you won't have another chance."

_Two, for the show…_

"Already said." She nodded. "Just get it over with."

_Three, to get ready…_

"As you wish."

Above its nasty tricorne, it raised the lengthier blade; she swallowed hard. The dark point piercing and wide, allotting for not a hasty move, the plan had better work – whatever it was…!

"Show me… your soul, wench!" it demanded.

_And four, to GO!_

"After you—!"

By a growl, the odd pommel lifted fleetingly higher. Bare ball upon Isabella's blade still, her rump lifted as she forced the limb before her with a huff. A sharp screech, her eardrums scratched though her eyes rewarded at sight of the small grip pinned underfoot. Quickly flattened on the cool tile, her sweeping hand snatched the blade – a loud _TING_ ringing through the armory as her new weapon swatted away the thing's own. Legs uplifting, into herself curling, an awkward, backward sort of donkey kick shoved the freak away, quickly before it had a second chance. Sheer impetus rolled her onto her numbed soles, easily; on her heel, she spun around.

"_Gah…!_" it coughed. "What be that!?"

"Ha!" she brought her blade to a sort of guard. "I'm not fodder – I can make my own destiny! You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"

"A warrior's death you wish?" it stomped to its back stance. "So it shall be! Brace yourself, scurvy wench!"

She smirked.

"You're a cheeky one." She laughed. "This'll be fun…!"

"Girl, you _are_ tripping!" Tiff exclaimed.

"Just shut up!"

---

"O'er the bodies and through the halls," Before her, Brad mused, sardonically, "for the freak, we'll go…"

"Very profound, Brad." A buzzing in her sockets, her eyes took a lap. "Now will you shut up? We're going for surprise."

"How can four people down a narrow corridor be sneaky in the first place?" Shell moaned. "We can barely fit as is, and God help us if we should run into _it_ again!"

"Would you prefer a one-on-one session?" she frowned. "If so, be my guest if Tiffany doesn't beat it to the punch."

"Damn it." Brad rolled his sling shoulder. "My shoulder's sore. Will someone else please take point – _please…?_"

"Sore shoulders, cramped hallways, and bad parodies!" She was glad to take her turn to moan. "Man, am I with the biggest group of whiners or what? I can even hear Tuck moaning 'bout evil raccoons or something."

"I knew I should have never let him watch those stupid animés." Brad sighed. "Now sometimes, he thinks he's possessed by some kind of evil raccoon spirit. Saw a picture of one of its real-life counterparts – man, they're ugly!"

"Well," she shrugged, "if you catch Tuck out at night, sifting through garbage cans, you'll know why. Now can we all focus for five minutes, please? We've work to do!"

"I would if Solomon keeps that damn powder in his pouch!" Brad sniffed. "_Man…!_"

"It is incense, I have told you!" Sol exclaimed. "Incense!"

"Take care of the reveling ant, and we'll have no trouble—!"

Solomon was quick to keep Bradley's sentence a fragment.

"_REVENANT!!_" Sol shouted. "REV-EN-_ANT!_"

"Shut – _UP!!_" she yelled. "Shut up – shut up – _SHUT UP! _I don't want to hear it anymore! Till this damn crisis is over, I don't want to catch another damn word out of any of you! Am I understood? Tell me if I'm not clear!"

"Still say it's a reveling ant, though…."

"_Bradley…!_" she growled.

"Okay – okay!" he held up a hand. "I get it."

"See that you do." She frowned. "Now, will you move it? We've work to—"

—_CLANG – clang – CLANG!! —_

"—Do…!"

Down the corridor, far past Bradley's rolling shoulder, something rang out boisterous clatter-clangs without a single care. Around the far corner, shifting wisps of dark were a pattern erratic. Neither tactful nor even practiced, by a single grunt, it was as though its master wanted to be found. Perhaps not, the man maybe too engaged with his terse struggle to mind—

—Another grunt, feminine and alto, every bit of strain and effort channeled into a breath, single and tense—

—Or woman, for that matter…!

Metallic jostle rattling from before, Brad lifted his rifle level to the wool shoulder whilst loafers narrowed his stand. His long cheek met the odd stock in eager wait. The boy's stand edgy and thin; quickly, Jenny took up the space beside to be safe. By shifting metal and whirring drawl, thrust out from her elbow open wide was her typical blaster. The far, shifting shades darker and wide, her digits could not wrap around the grip fast enough.

"Everyone else, fall back." The hardwood scratched, her stance broadened to shoulder width. "Keep your wits about you, Brad. Full auto's not an option!"

"Easy for you to say." He frowned. "I don't even know what setting this thing's on."

With a sigh, her awkward hand met the dark receiver; while successful, still her digit strained to move the stubby lever back a notch.

"Three-shot burst." She said. "Now focus!"

"Rodger—!"

A blaring shout, alto and womanly, a wide piece of shade broadened and deepened – the freak of the hour crashed into the wall, its swords loose within its grip!

"There it _is!_" Brad eased a step forward, intently.

"Hold your fire." She urged—

Brad let out a protest; she heeded it not. Her tympanums acute, quickened steps hasty and heavy, they carried the freak's opponent for that far corner, just as she expected. Another shady smear deepened and wide, the assailant made itself – _her_self – known to all as she leapt tall into their stretch of hall, a blade strangely ornate tight within her back-arcing hands.

Smeared smudges even in her POV, yet not even that speed could hide those trademark incisors.

"Is that…?" she blinked.

"_Brittany!_" Sheldon yelled. "The hell you _DOING!?_"

High into the leap, the girl could not reply; her blade cutting and slicing but the only answer given. Neither truly down nor out cold, the freak crossed its two blades up into a high guard. Betwixt, the three blades rang out with a rattling, screeching clang.

A soiled boot firm on the flooring, it pushed to a stand, Brittany away with a hoarse grunt. Blades parting ways with a horrible shriek, the pistol-sword made a quick slash as the longer one pushed into a thrust. Brit easily dodged the first – incredibly, her blade swatted away the second, and she gave the freak a piece of her mind by a solid kick to the gut.

The restless soul tumbled their way. The grudging hostess was sure to see them, yet it seemed she did not care, her cutting, stabbing blade perpetually taking the point… closer… and _closer!_

"Crap!" she yelled. "Everyone _duck!_"

Her blaster reverting into her arm, her opposite seized Brad by the waist, and she leaned into her side of the hall by a hearty push. Gladly, it gave way by hinges well oiled; Bradley let out a yelp. Time not on her side, she could not afford to speculate neither of Solomon or Sheldon—

Sure enough, past the vacant doorway, the prancing, clashing duo made their jerky, heated way. Metal clashing a decrescendo – ending, abruptly, engulfed by the vacant breath of the sea. Within her vision, the digital readout did drop a few degrees; Brad beside let out a shiver.

"_Oh…!_" he blew. "So cold, all of a sudden."

"Where's Solomon?" she gave her head a sudden shake. "Where's Sheldon!?"

"Jennifer?" that borderline bass called. "Mr. Carbuncle…?"

"That you, Solomon?" she pushed to her boots.

"The one and the only." The baritone affirmed.

"Where's Sheldon?" she asked. "Is he okay?"

"He is fine." Sol replied. "We both ducked into this utility closet. I am the more fortunate as Mr. Lee had tumbled into the mop-well."

"Damn it!" Shell cursed. "I just had this jacket washed!"

Playing it safe, a boot slowly toed the flooring outside, an eye peeking following suit. Clear on the left as on the right, she easily pulled the rest of her being out of the room. Brad stumbled out past her, rifle in hand; down the cooler stretch of hall, Sol in a deep bend, he had those brown hands full dragging Sheldon's squirming form by the rump.

"Damn, damn, _damn!_" the Asian cursed. "Now I smell like frigging Comet, and these damn bleach stains will never come off! Mom's going to kill me…!"

"Existence sucks, Sheldon." Her eyes rolled. "Deal with it. Did either of you see where the gruesome twosome went? By my thermometer, I process they went outside."

"They didn't shut the door." Rifle slung on his shoulder, Brad rubbed gingerly at his arms. "That's going to kill the utilities bill…!"

"Tactful, I believe." Solomon unrolled from his hunch. "If I recall, that same door led to the foredeck. If Ms. Krust had a sort of sense, she would realize she would have a better chance in a wide-open space. Then again, so would the revenant – judging by that weapon style."

"We can't assume that she knows what she's doing." She said. "We've got to help. Shell and Brad, head for the armory – Tiff should be there at least. Check her out and stock up on whatever you need. Sol, you're coming with me. There's not a lot to time left, so we'll have to act fast!"

"In Marduk's name," Sol said incredulous, "what are you planning, Jennifer?"

Devilishly, she smirked.

"We're giving that freak one hell of a cast off."

---

Out the door and into the gloom, the fog's vacant breath but little razors nicking at her skin, the utter cold cutting at her hands and feet freshly slicked. A slight move exorbitant, she would have kicked herself under a better circumstance; thin garments on the open sea that her underwear provided slightest warmth. The freak before her stumbling in its dreaded nakedness, the chill bothered it, hardly.

A step back too little, the thing's barren backside met the foredeck with a thud. She took the affordable second to rub at her chest.

"Cold…." She shivered. "_Cold_ – cold…!"

"So be your spine scathed by a frosty touch." It rolled to its grungy, tacky boots; it retook its stance with a stomp. "Welcome to the high seas! Gratefully, I'm bothered not by mere conditions anymore. You and your friends are another tale."

One last shiver, a _knock_ of a toothy chatter, cold stabbed at her soles, her calves as she brought Isabella's blade to the ready.

"Maybe another tale…." She breathed. "But it's not going to be the ending you desire!"

Its single orb of milky white blinked.

"If I'd be Davy Jones' wench!" it growled. "Where'd you get that blade!?"

"Krust family treasure." She said. "Also going to be the last thing you'll ever see!"

"Ha-ha-ha-ha…!" it laughed. "Oh – this be too rich for coincidence to conspire! I thought this eye of mine would never lie upon that craftsmanship again, possibly lost forever. I thought there was a familiar soul about you, that blade and that lack of carriage. So much, you remind me of my useless daughter, Isabella!"

She gasped.

"_What??_" her head shook. "What did you say!?"

"Isabella Valentine." It growled. "That useless, landlubber bitch of an alchemist. She would have been Isabella de Leon if I'd known 'bout her all those years ago. To think, she was the granddaughter of the Black Tail's barkeep. Intense and ruthless to the core, I would say she was a chip off the block."

"No…!" her head shook bewildered. "That can't be right! But that would mean…!"

"So I've stumbled upon another descendent!" it laughed. "Lady Luck must be on my side today! My seed direct, it reaped nothing but worthless women. Then again, if I had my way with you, perhaps fate would grant me an heir worthy of my blessing! Not all of this old salt's charred beyond recognition, I'll have you know!"

It not for the chill, she would have brought herself to gag.

"_Blah!_" she spat. "Not on your life! Antecedent or not, you're going down!"

"This be your choice – fine with me!" it stomped again. "Have at you—!"

The door far behind banged open, hurried steps both light and plodding carried their owners for her. Stepped beside her stood a person a bit taller than she on thick, cumbersome boots, skin a peaked white, those unmentionables laid hidden behind rather stiff garments of cyan. Hair of equal hue was up propped into two blocky pigtails; _she_ shot her a glance by a glossy eye.

"Holding out okay…?" Everyone's _favorite_ child of metal asked.

"The cold…!" Chill biting at her skin; civility was overrated, indeed. "I'm _freezing!_"

"Go back inside, Brit." Jenny placed forward a heavy boot. "We'll take it from here. Just brace yourself for sudden _tremors_."

"Girl of metal again!" it barked. "Be this a bad joke – familiar soul or not, I've no time for the weak! Soul Edge must feast!"

"Your sword wants to eat," the robot trained its awkward blaster upon the freak, "I could give a damn – get off this ship! Find some other sucker to waste!"

"I applaud your courage, but I must refuse." It frowned… at least she thought it did. "Think you can toss me overboard? Give it a try, if you dare_—!_"

The freak could not finish; Jennifer ensured it with a quick squeeze of her boxy trigger. A crackle-snap of blue – a buzzing _ZAP_, and the freak was reeling on its weathered heels, on the railing waist high when the hot plasma burned into the only half of its chest.

"I double dare!" Jenny frowned with a digit firm on the side of her head. "Casque, the freak's overboard – _hit it!_"

The freak in midst of going over, off its skull, the ruined tricorne far in the lead… yet it had the will to flash at her the guard of its shorter blade. Hardly a hilt, it seemed to have a rather large hole drilled in it with but of a sliver of brass underneath peeking. A purple digit took up that brass – and the very hole began to shine; mellow yellow, at first, before it deepened into the very manifestation of burning wrath.

"Brit – WATCH _OUT!_" she was sure Jenny had shouted—

_BLAM!!_


	21. Chapter XXI

XXI

Vision a flickering snow, tympanums crackling hoarse, piercing through it could not keep her sight from the bright fluorescents overhead. Ceiling barren and plain, rather it was a bit of a bore, so she let her actuators yank her torso upright without a whine of protest – underneath, the sheet metal buckling. Her feet, her thin boots typical with glossy black sheen, a flaw or a ding not amongst the glare, it was as though they were fresh out of the box.

_Did that meat bag really…?_ It was a whisper of a process through her ghost. _Am I really restored?_

A suitable mirror pinned not on any of the garage's walls, Vexus could not certain.

"Ah!" It called, merrily. "I hear that you are online again."

"Murad." Sense was hard pressed, shaking back into her ghost. "So you're still here…."

"_Tab'an._" It nodded, sweeping stick taking the lead. "Where else would I be? Abdullah and Amine are out, foraging for some food for me and suitable crude for you."

"Where's that other?" Around the garage, her eyes and head rolled; it was just Murad and she, and nothing more. "My repairman, as it was."

"Salamon is currently resting." It said. "He has been up for most of the night, working on your repairs. It would not be prudent to wake him just yet."

Sweeping her legs off the table, she carefully placed one boot firm onto the concrete, pushing hard. Servos whirring, inner workings holding fast, it appeared her repairs were not rushed. The other boot before her other, she chanced herself up to a stance shaky. Lengthy digits flawless, they attempted to keep gravity at bay as her feet took turns before each other.

"Everything seems to be in order." She nodded. "Yet everything feels a little lighter – _whoa…!_"

Something underfoot, small as a pebble, yet it was enough to sweep the concrete up in her view – squarely stopping in midst. Its stick clattering uselessly upon the floor, Murad pushed her back onto her boots with a huff.

"While time is against us, do not rush yourself." Carefully in a crouch, a hand blindly quested for its stick. "We have to see if your repairs hold."

"I'm not used to this lightness." Her lengthy digits slid down her glossy form. "Everything works quicker, faster, and flawless. Tympanums can't even catch my workings anymore."

"The best materials that _maal_ can procure went into Salamon's original robot." It explained. "Some of those very materials had been transplanted into you. Salamon explained it to me before he went to rest. While he repaired your critical workings, he could not transplant as many of the weapons as he would have liked. Your slender frame would not allow it. You are simply an enhanced version of the robot you used to be."

"That's fine." She placed a hand on her wide cheek. "I'd like to recognize the robot in the mirror, anyway."

"_Shukran_ for the reminder!" Those cloudy eyes batted. "Guide me inside the house, if you do not mind."

Her brow kinked.

"Okay…."

Thin digits curling around those of flesh, her timorous boots carried her for that door atop the small, thin steps. One boot before the other, perpetually taking turns, they gradually guided them up those steps, past the door – where they almost lost footing upon the thin throw rug. Murad took back his hand, gratefully, rubbing it on its flowing gown.

"Oily feeling." Its throat shifted. "Not nice at all."

"Forgive me." She frowned.

"I hold it not against you." It shook its head. "When one sense grows weary and dull, the others must compensate."

"I wouldn't know." She shrugged.

"Do not concern yourself." It said. "Now come. There is something you should see before _fuTuur_, before you take your final leave."

"What is it?" she asked.

"Keep close." Murad said. "If memory serves me, correctly, it should be no more than several steps ahead and around the corner…."

Several steps ahead and around that very corner, she carefully walked into the structure's room of dwelling. Through the dark, her eyes pierced, effortlessly – than before, it was far better! Centerpiece a small, wooden table atop an ornate rug, encroached it was by a wraparound couch, bedecked by an end table; the humble viewing box the focal point of it all. Rather privy, circumstances considering.

Murad could not pay it even the slightest of mind, sweeping stick guiding it for the lamp atop the end table. Questing fingers tracing up the narrowing shaft, it was rewarded by the rich, warm glow that brightened the room. Her night vision deactivated not a moment after.

"Here we are." It nodded to itself. "Where we are supposed to be."

"And _what _are we supposed to be doing?" she asked. "View the viewing box over yonder?"

"_Laa_." Its head shook. "Not at all – though, that will be before Abdullah and Amine return. Instead, I would like for you to turn around, and tell me what you see."

"What I see?" she blinked.

"The very same." It nodded. "Now, tell me. Give my imagination an exercise!"

"_Oh_ – very well…!" a buzzing in her sockets as her eyes took a roll, carefully spinning on her flat heel. "What's the big deal, anyway_—?_"

Before her stood… herself, pinned onto the dirty wall with the parallel image of the dwelling room behind it, wide, angled mask twisted in equal awe. The holes and fissures nevermore, sealed forever behind the sheen, the colors themselves rich metallic shades of their former selves, glittering gold and sparkling forest green. Her headpiece neither as broad nor sweeping, instead more round and stocky, her mask thinned as her lips – her entire body had been streamlined; yet her repairman could not help but add many a curve sensuous.

"Whoa…!" her digits placed upon her cheek. "No wonder everything's so light…!"

"That does not help me in the slightest." Murad sniggered. "But I take by your gasp and silence you are somewhat pleased by the results."

"I – I…!" words struggled out her speaker. "I haven't looked this good in ages – it's like I haven't had any progeny at all! Now I know what King had seen in me – I'm scorching!"

"_Mumtaaz, 'imra'a!_" It smiled, warmly. "I am so happy to hear that. Salamon Rex will be pleased to hear that. But before this old mind of mine forgets, there is something I need to give to you—"

"What's that…?" her thinned brow kinked.

"It is nothing malicious, I assure you." It reached slowly into its open vest, limb fidgeting. "On the other hand, it could very well be used to extend one's malice beyond his self. I hope you know how to use it, wisely, Queen Vexus."

Out from the gown, Murad withdrew a sword stored safely within its scabbard. Wooden grip a single hand's length; its pommel bulbous was fixed off center. It nestled into her thin small palm, easily enough when she slowly took it for herself. Scabbard aged well, wrapped tightly by animal tissues, sown secure by thin sinews of a perpetual v-pattern down the length. Tympanums tickled by a shrieking scrape, the blade withdrew along its easy curve. The blade gleamed raw and blackened; it had graced plenty of battles, certainly.

"A sword." the blade returned to its place of rest at her notion. "Why are you giving me this?"

"As I have said before, _'imra'a_," Murad shook its head. "Salamon could not implant as many systems as he would have liked. I cannot tell you what new systems you now possess, because I honestly do not know. But with your probing implement, it seems you are familiar with a sort of swordplay, are you not?"

"Self acquired, yes." She nodded.

"Then let my blade serve and protect you." It keenly nodded. "It served me well during my insurgent days during the Intergalactic War – just before I lost my sight. I hate to speak it, but it had cut down many of your fellow denizens. Perhaps it will serve you best against this 'Nyx' character."

"You dismantled _how_ many of my kind…?" her thinned brow kinked.

"Plenty, I assure you." It said. "If you possess a sort of spectrograph within your eyes, you probably could trace familiar elements."

"I don't." she said. "How could this primitive blade slash its way through Cluster paneling?"

"This originally was my _Jadd's_ _shamshir_." It took in a breath. "He gave it to my _'ab_, who then gave it to me. It has been in my family for generations amongst others, serving us well in times of great need.

"One morning, when _Jadd_ was out praying before he herded his goats for some water, he look to the heavens – towards the southwest, mind you – in midst of a bow. Streaking across the lightening sky with bravado shot a shooting star. He took it as a good omen… yet it proved to be ill as it suddenly grew larger, and larger… until the old goat himself realized it had been falling towards him! _Boom!_

"The shooting star had crashed into the very spot he had been praying! The ground trembled – he had been knocked off his feet, and some of his herd had died in an instant. Wondering what _Allah _had been planning, _Jadd_ mustered the courage to peer inside the fresh pit. The meteorite had been rendered to pieces, yet something in the crater glowed, hotly. He waited until the evening to excavate the piece.

"_Allah_, it seemed, to have graced my _Jadd_ with a rather hefty piece of star metal. Those times were as troubled as today, you see. The _al-Anfal_ campaign was close to a full swing, and the former regime was in midst of readying its machines of mass murder. Considering pieces of the family had already been rounded up and terminated, he readied himself to fight for his beloved PUK."

"PUK?" she blinked.

"'Patriotic Union of Kurdistan'." It said. "Iraq is a odd country, yet no more odd than any other country on this planet. While the _al-Anfal_ ensued, _Jadd_ had no weapons of his own to fight. One could get an old _Kalashnikov_ rifle relatively cheap, yet _Jadd_ had been cursed with the year's bad luck. No weapons of his own, he took the metal found in the meteorite and began his work. It took him much time – on several occasions, he almost would have been sent to Topzawa – yet he managed to finish his projects within a nick of time.

"And one of those projects is what you now hold in your hands."

"A sword fashioned from star metal." She turned it in her hands. "Sounds so familiar…. This thing won't eat your soul, will it?"

"Do not be silly, Queen Vexus." It chuckled. "It had served three generations of my family well. I am sure it will serve you as the same – ensure that you do not get carried away, let alone stab yourself."

"Trust me, I won't." she said.

"Good." It nodded. "Now take a seat and give your rejuvenated self a bit of a rest. Abdullah and Amine should be back within a minute's time. But when they return, be sure to consume whatever they have procured. It would not be far fetched to say that IPS or Skyway Patrol is not headed for this part of Mosul, if they are not already."

"Right." She nodded. "Okay…."

---

Eyes weary and sore, light intense glowed through Brittany's lids.

She could not remember, exactly what had happened before everything dimmed into blackness consuming. The Adrian II running aground, Isabella's sword, an explosion, all of it a jumbled muddle racing through her brain with that disgusting, zombie pirate the center of it all—

_Two swords, one fouled black and the other a mix of derringer and blade…_ Sense had made something click deep within._ I remember the latter glowed hotly – a bang and—!_

A crackling snap – the gray sky of shifting wisps swept down before her whilst pain, serious _pain_ gnawed at her belly, eating into her churning gusts. For comfort, she placed a hand upon her abdominal – textiles warmly drenched, fingers grew wet with sticky warmth. Her belly, her chest, her breasts, and up her neck, hovering square before her eyes.

Her slender fingers were moistly coated in a blackening shade of _red…!_

Lids popped open – intense light stabbed at her eyes. Wincing to a shut, she brought her chest up to a sit… only to have a cold, _ice-cold_ touch force her back down supine. Away, she swatted it, backhandedly, subtle pain singeing her knuckles.

"Calm down, Brit." A voice familiar spoke, coolly... as chilled as that touch on her naked shoulders. "It's me. Don't fight me - you _have_ to lie down…!"

"What?" her lids winced. "Jenny…?"

"One and only." The voice said.

Web of her hand atop the bridge of her nose, her thumb and index, equally weak, did their best to massage those suddenly gnarled lids.

"God, my eyes…!" she moaned.

"Girl, quit your whining!" Out of the blue, Tiffany just had to say. "Want some limburger cheese to go with it?"

"Take it easy, Brit." Jenny said. "I'll turn down the lights. Now, where do you keep that dimmer?"

"Check the light switch." Tiff said, politely, _peculiarly…_ "It should be flanking the toggle, directly. Shift it up or down, you'll get the picture."

The picture heeded, indeed. Through her lids, the intense bright faded to a tolerable blush. Sore eyes freshly singed, Brit had decided to chance it – the light warmly glowing upon her from its fixture, directly above her head. Everything had adjusted, aptly.

Her pillow puffy and soft, the cloth pulled loose and taut beneath her rolling head. The dresser ornate of ebony, the table lamp atop like a champagne flute, the bedspread underneath distinct of rich patterns and warm colors, and an evening gown formal twinkling at her, incandescently by the hanger fixed on the door. This was _her_ cabin!

She sat up – effort in vain as those icy palms eased her back down. Thick, heavy boots moved back a step her uninvited guest. Thin lips of blue pulled into a stern frown.

"Stay _down_, I said." Jennifer huffed. "You'll tear the scabbing open."

"Scabbing…?" she blinked. "What…?"

"You got your ass shot, girl." Tiff said, rather bluntly. "Amazing how you lasted that long against that freak a nature – but do stupid stuff, and stupid stuff will happen!"

To the side apposite, she glared a hot dagger. Dear cousin sat in a drained slouch on one of the vanity's chairs; Shell-dork had taken his place on the other. An empty boot on the floor flanked by those hideous armor pieces, two-toned sock wet with red draped across all, Shell-dork kept himself busy. Unraveling bandages inside one hand and cousin's naked foreleg within the other… yet below that large band-aid, Tiffany's wide face hinted not a single, disgusted twist.

"I don't want to hear that from you." She frowned. "Your personal bubble's been popped, don't you know."

"Why yes, I _do_ know…." Tiff nodded. "May be so, but after today… I could really give a damn anymore – _oh_ – not so tight, man! I'm going to go numb!"

"Sorry." The geek wisely eased his grip. "Bend your knee a little deeper."

Tiff complied by a forward screech of her chair, the calf fattened inside those pasty hands. Pain subtle in the back of her head, her own eyes were almost stuck in their cross.

"Does that _please_ you, Shell-dork?" she shot. "Be careful, now! I think I see a teepee rising on your jeans."

"Hey!" Tiff snatched her nasty sock. "Step off – you better not say anything bad 'bout SHELDON!"

The fingerless glove sliced down, the ruined cloth growing in size as her tingling heart shrank several. The craziest, today had very well been. The sock pungent in her nose, the blood's cool touch, and Tiffany's resolve behind it all; the moment the ruined cloth graced her face, she might as well have awakened into the ancient Twilight Zone.

"What's going _on…?_" she moaned, brushing away the fouled textile. "Where am I? Everything's gone _crazy…!_"

"Turn down the drama, girl!" Tiff frowned. "You not in another universe, you not hallucinating, you're in the here and now. If you were wondering, _that's_ why you can't wake up. We're all here on Adrian II, heading for Spain even as I take you to school. Now, quit your whining and just relax. You be in worse shape than me."

"You're actually letting him _touch_ you?" she gasped. "Are you off your rocker – you'll get infected!"

"Infected with what, Brit?" Back, Tiff incredibly frowned. "I'd _be_ infected if Shell didn't clean me up. He was helping me back in the gun vault while you were off playing hero – and look where that got you! Nailed right in the gut. And if I were you, I'd be the last person to bitch-out Shell."

"And why would that be, dear 'cousin'?" She, too, frowned.

"_Pf…_" the small girl laughed. "You think your blood stopped oozing on its own, the wound cleaning by sheer willpower, and those bandages wrapping around you on their own accord? I may owe Shell a lot, but you practically owe him your life!"

Nothing, she said, letting a silence pregnant grow fat within her cabin. Yet… could it be true, true as the scratchy lengths on her belly, beneath the very pads of her fingertips? After all had been said and all had been done, did Shell-dork really…? Her eyes wandered for the only other pair in the room, despite its perpetual glossy sheen.

"Don't look at me." Jennifer shrugged. "I had nothing to do with this."

"I've been thinking a lot, Brit." Tiffany sighed. "Maybe we've been singing this same old song for far too long. Being popular… it just isn't what it's cracked up to be anymore. Sure, it's a blast in high school, but then what 'bout college, 'bout grad school, and beyond even that. No one gives a damn if we've been the social elite of Tremorton High for the past few years. That pirate sure as hell didn't care who we are or where we came from. We almost died while living a lie…!"

"Tiffany Krust!" she snapped. "What're you saying?"

"Brittany, I love you." Tiff took in a breath shaky. "You and Uncle are the only family I've had since my own folks died. But something happened today – Uncle would have died, not to mention you. What then would be left for me in life? Why should I go on living? Money? Ha – don't make me laugh. What's the point if I couldn't share it, and I think philanthropy's overrated."

"If you have a point to make, Tiff," she said, "then make it."

"I think I'm going to give up being an elitist." Tiffany nodded. "After today, there's no point in it anymore. Besides, these fools aren't as bad as we thought they were – _OW!_"

While fastening the bandages' clamp, Shell-dork had given the girl a firm squeeze on the calf. The dork cleared his throat, punctually.

"Okay – _not_ fools, then." Tiff replied, quickly.

"Good enough for me." Shell shrugged. "Okay, it's done. Those punctures were deep. Keep weight off that leg for a couple weeks, at least. As for you, Brittany, you were lucky. That pirate missed your key organs, but you practically had been gut shot. I advise you to stay in bed till Mr. Krust gets a professional onboard. No walks, no movement, nothing! If you need a comfort stop, you _get_ someone to help you! The last thing anyone needs is for that wound to tear open again."

She frowned, bitterly.

"Is Sheldon understood, Brit?" Tiff pressed.

"Yeah – fine…!" she spat. "Cubit zirconium."

"Before I forget," Tiff reclaimed her leg, carefully allowing gravity to claim it by her toes, "Jenny, there's something I've been meaning to say to you. Been wanting to say it since that prank war, but never got around to it."

"It's okay." That spit-shined bucket of bolts said, oh-so _sweetly_. "What's up?"

Tiffany took in a breath.

"I'm… sorry," the girl said, quietly, "for all the trouble I've caused you. I can't speak for Brit though."

"It's fine." Jenny just had to smile. "I forgive and I delete the bad temp files in my ROM. Don't concern yourself too much."

"Uh, yeah…." Tiff kinked her band-aid. "That's one thing we got to talk about. But first, I need a drink. Can anyone give me a hand to the bar?"

"Ah-HA!" she pointed a finger, accusingly. "My jacket's missing – I knew something's up! You're wasted, aren't you?"

"Your Gentleman Jack's fine, girl." Tiff shrugged. "Haven't had a drop since the armory. Besides, this girl could use something like an apple martini. I wonder if we got any sour apple mix left in the galley…."

"Don't ask for any rum." Shell-dork took Tiffany by the arm, wrapping it behind that pencil neck whilst in a backwards turn. "I'll be happy if I never have to see another bottle of Captain Morgan again. Though, if you have any Worcestershire sauce, I can whip you up a Bloody Mary you wouldn't believe!"

"Sounds good to me." On her good foot, Tiffany balanced most of her weight. "Just leave out the celery stick."

"You got it—"

"Attention." The PA cattycorner clicked active. "This is Captain Casque speaking. After a thorough search of the ship, I am hereby lifting the lockdown. Passengers aboard are free to move about without delay. Crewmen are to return to their designated posts.

"Though the intruder is no longer a factor, he left us quite a mess to clean up. If any passenger aboard stumbles across a fallen member of the crew, notify the closest crewman, immediately. The Adrian II extends its gratitude and heart to all those who have fallen in the line of duty. I'll ensure their families are justly compensated – right, Mr. Krust—?"

"(Don't you _DARE_ drag me into this, you old salt!)"

"Such a kidder, isn't he?" the captain continued; Brittany frowned. "Before we resume normal operations, I must inform you that the ship's current position has changed."

Eyes boggling and a gasp collective, uncertainty certainly had swept through the ship, let alone the room. Even Jenny could not keep her down from her sit.

"What'd that old coot say!?" Tiff shot that speaker-box a hot glare.

"We _changed _position??" Shell-dork was at a loss. "But… _how!?_"

"We have just come out of the sea fog." The captain said. "Radar and GPS is functioning properly. According to recent triangulations, we are but a dozen knots past the Strait of Gibraltar."

"_GIBRALTAR!?_" it was a shout mostly united.

"Uh… let's pretend I don't know what that is…!" Tiff said, quickly.

"Between Africa and Spain – at the _southern_ tip of the Iberian Peninsula!" Jenny glossy eyes had crossed. "How could we have gone from Vigo to Gibraltar within such a short time? I know Europe is compact, but this does not compute – does not _COMPUTE!!_"

"_WHAT!?_"

"Calm down, Jenny." Shell-dork held up a free hand. "You'll blow a gasket, literally!"

"Upon hearing this," the old salt himself carried on, "I urge all of you to remain calm and collected. We shall make port the first chance the ship receives. I am sorry this has happened, and I'm sorry it has happened on my watch. There is nothing we can do about it. For our passengers, I urge you to adjust any further travel plans you have, accordingly. That is all, for now."

A muted click, the cattycorner speaker fell silent – would have died if Shell-dork kept Tiff's arm from flinging her empty boot.

"That old geezer!" Tiff exclaimed. "Not even God knows what he's doing or Uncle for that matter!"

"Oh, leave my old man alone…." She moaned. "We may come and go, but he has to ensure everything's in tip-top shape. He's some pretty big business coming his way, after all."

"He can deal with whatever comes up." Tiff dismissed. "Nothing stopped him before."

"Easy for you to say." She huffed.

"Oh – step off, Brit." The small girl rolled those darkly traced eyes. "Considering we be delayed, I really could use that drink. Bloody Mary, you said, Shell?"

"That's right." He nodded.

"Sounds good to me." Tiff said. "You want me to bring something back for you?"

"Everclear." She sighed. "Mint flavored – straight shot!"

"_Everclear??_" Tiff exclaimed. "You mean that ninety-five percent _pure_ stuff?"

"The very same." She nodded. "You're not the only one who could use a drink, you know."

"You know, Brit," Shell-dork dared to speak, directly, "a 190-proof substance isn't exactly what you call a 'fine spirit'. It's more like sulfuric acid. Unless you're planning a campfire or doing some emergency cooking, you'll be _way_ better off with simple vodka."

"I'm sorry, did you say ninety-five percent pure alcohol?" Jenny interjected.

"Yes…?" Tiff glanced at the robot, oddly. "Why…?"

"Awesome!" the robot almost jumped. "I've been trying to put more spring in my step! Oil isn't cutting it anymore. I need something that's a bit more combustible. Maybe this 'Everclear' is just what I've been questing for."

"Oh, it'll _combust_, alright!" she sharply smirked.

"Cousin," Tiff gestured to Jenny a sweeping hand, "if that isn't proof in the pudding, I don't know what is! If insects wont touch it, or if it's a part of Jenny's diet – you _know_ it's not good for you."

"Oh – come on, Brit." Shell-dork said. "How 'bout I make you a martini or something. You'll thank me for it later, I can assure you."

"Damn it." Warmth of the bedspread sank into her backsides again. "Do what you want! I could really give a damn today. Just let me relax…."

"Your loss, then." Tiff dismissed with a shrug. "Come on, Shell. Make me the best damn Bloody Mary this side of England."

"Will you persecute the Protestants, mercilessly after a couple?" he asked, simply.

"Uh – _no…._" the girl said in a drawl. "Should I…?"

"No, I don't think so." He shook his head. "Crimson doesn't seem to be your color anyway…."

Through the door and into the hall, the two ensured their hobbling way for the galley. The corridor alive with rambunctious chatter and a couple laughs shared, Jenny's ridiculous boots kept firm on her little square of floorboards; that metal brow appeared to be locked in an incredulous kink. Aloud, she made her "thoughts" public.

"Odd, I processed he was into _me—!_"


	22. Chapter XXII

XXII

"_Aw…_ damn it!" his plucky cohort cursed, fussing with its new disguise. "Why do _I_ got to wear this damn cloak for!?"

Through the desert, over many a mount of sand and arid, shifting earth, Nyx and Hell's Grand Duke had finally made it into civilization. The livid sun and teasing moon their only guides, they had come upon a shift of this planet's society. Many structures loomed tall over them as they moved closer on a suspended bridge, yet familiar structures of the travel just past peeked at him from lush puffs of green – more ornate, more pretentious. The casual dress but that, more fit to the form and individualized. Many a male and female shared even the same style of pants!

A primordial and a golem lost within those crowds, in the midst of coming and going, impossible!

"The same reason I must wear it." He said. "We do not wish to irk the locals so soon. It wouldn't be prudent to expose us so soon without Soul Edge's unstoppable, prodigious power. In fact, I'm not sure where exactly we should start."

"We're almost out of the Middle East, crossing into Europe." Astaroth noted aloud. "If my noggin serves me right, I'd say were in… Constantinople! I just don't remember any of these huge buildings here."

"You've been trapped in your grotto for over four hundred Earth years." He shrugged. "Surely, with time comes change – even change your feeble little mind couldn't hope to dream. I'm sure things have changed on my home world, but I don't think I'll ever see them for myself. Looks like this mud ball will have to do."

"Hey – I'm not feeble!" It yelled.

"I didn't say _you_ were." He shrugged. "Your brain, on the other hand… you may have to clean the bats out."

"Why'd I come along again…?" it asked.

"Case in point, right here." He sniggered.

"Huh…?"

"Oh – forget it!" his eyes rolled. "Alright, bloodhound. If you can track the Soul Edge, then what are we doing here? Do you sense a shard, or is this a comfort stop?"

"Or maybe I just needed a place of reference!" it growled. "You _know _how long I've been underground! I didn't know how much everything had changed within several centuries."

"Is this place familiar?" he pressed.

"Yeah."

"Do your senses have a heading?"

"We should head… somewhere southwest." It nodded. "Somewhere still within this city. I've got this feeling – its stronger in that direction."

"Good." He smiled. "Let those feelings flow, and don't inhibit them by 'rational' thoughts. We can't relay on conventional means for this quest."

"Whatever!" it yelled. "Just follow me before I lose it!"

"Right."

The metropolis large and wide, buildings of similar taste and design were almost but a never-ending smear as they hurried way through the cramped streets, narrow walks, and dense crowds. Many a passerby was caught off guard as past he easily brushed; Astaroth one for theatricality, the cityscape spectacular in its dull orbs of white as it cleared a city block in a single jump. He was sure his ears had caught a transport's irritable horn or two.

"I'll never catch him on these legs…!" he frowned.

Resigned to the fates, he made a sharp turn and jogged into the near alleyway. The light shade a relieving cool through his scratchy folds, it was as though the night spirit herself had granted him her rest. Power spiked at a surge, he embraced the shade, wholly, enveloping him, and taking him for the alley by where the Grand Duke's weathered boots had touched down for the final time.

A large, wide structure, highly wrought and flamboyant, as large as the block of city it was fixed upon, seemingly for centuries. It glared at them, weakly by red's faded hue. Four encircling towers loomed over them, imposingly not as so as that humongous dome. Several shaded windows peeked at them below the arcing eave of that wide, frontal arch; between what appeared to be two guard towers.

"Glad to see time didn't do away with this place." The golem nodded.

"What is this place, Astaroth?" he could not help but ask.

"A church." It said. "Or some sort of pagan temple. I forgot what in Tartarus this place really is or used to be. Better ask those two Greek brats, if they're still alive. All I know for sure, is that one of those fragments lies somewhere within this building."

"So then, what're we waiting for?" he asked. "An invite? Let's go hunting."

"Wait a minute!" It shook its cowl. "Right _now…?_"

"Sure." He said. "Why not?"

"I don't know." It said, hesitantly. "Busting in on some god's holy place, that seems a little _too _risky – even for this shell of clay. Last thing I want is another curse on my head."

"Have you forgotten already, my dear Astaroth?" he posed. "You are with the great Primordial, not some lowly nymph. There is no greater power in the universe than that of the prodigious spirit of the night. If not for her blessing, I wouldn't be near as powerful. So don't concern yourself. I can handle anything the fates dare throw at me."

"Okay, okay!" it held up a large, purple hand. "No more learned words that make my head spin. But if you're so damn great, than how do _you_ propose we get in there? Just walk in!?"

The sunny day, it had brought many of this existence's many different walks out for a little more than a fresh whiff of atmosphere. Many of dress casual, others more formal, and even a few he construed "religious", yet all had shared a random strip of ground that led from the entrance to a short distance away. To it, he gestured a pointing finger.

"Uh, _duh…!_" he said.

The black cowl whipped for it in a heartbeat, only to whip back with both milky orbs glaring a blind dagger.

"Cute, smart-ass!" it growled. "Very funny…."

"Ask a stupid question…." He shrugged.

"Get Kulutues upside your head!" It shot.

"Touchy, are we today!" he laughed. "Didn't know Hell's Grand Duke could be irked so easily."

Purple brow furrowing, its frown and drawl of a growl were just as intense. His eyes took a lap around their sockets.

"Okay, fine." He sighed. "You big baby."

"Damn straight!" it blinked right after it blew an acrid huff. "_Wait_ – what'd I just say…?"

---

"(God damn it, Casque!)" The PA cattycorner switched active, untimely; the Krust patriarch's voice a hoarse shout. "(What the _hell_ did we hit _THIS TIME!?)_"

A question suitable! The second Adrian rocked, unstably; her thin lips planted a deep kiss upon the tightly slatted flooring whilst useless Brittany held fast to her bedding. It was a question Jennifer wanted to pose herself – and just after the charges freed the super yacht from the last _hurdle_, too!

"Cogs!" her slobber a greasy smear on the flooring, in her POV as she upwardly pushed to a knee. "I'm going to have the captain's license revoked, I swear it!"

"Just be grateful you've still a body to carry you." Brit shot, cheaply from her bed. "It must be nice, having a body you can easily repair at the slightest scuff or ding. That's a luxury even the Krust Legacy can't afford, I'm afraid. So here I am."

"It's not as glamorous as you believe." She unrolled herself upright. "On that, you can trust me."

"Don't be so modest." The dark girl sighed. "It's not like you've to deal with this _– pain!_"

Her boots twisting carried her closer to that bed, a drawl of a buzz at point as her finger did the rest. Her second digit but a thin sliver of its former self, a pump of her pacemaker ensured the tab filled, properly. She was certain she drank in a whole drip bag's worth of morphine for some reason.

"Seems the dosage wore off already." She processed aloud.

"You _processed—!?_" the girl cursed through those large buckteeth.

"Just calm down, Brit." She took one of the girl's forearms into her weak grasp. "Nothing major. I'm going to give you another dosage, okay?"

"_Whatever!_" Brit bit her lip, incredibly. "Just do it, plea—!"

A buzz of a whirr, Brit yelped, almost jumped on the bed as Jenny's thinned digit touched her joint, rather deeply. A process simple in her ghost, her tympanums caught a bit of hiss; the plunger hidden had fully depressed. The tab almost like magic, Brittany's wince eased and slowly, the girl lay flat on the bedspread once more. After, it took her not much to revert the needle back into her hand.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" she smiled.

"Being gut-shot and poked!" the girl said in a huff. "The family yacht a damn bumper car – and I lost my heels, on top of it! Could this trip get any _worse?_"

"Would you rather be dead?" she blinked.

"No." On the pillow, Brit rolled her head sideways. "But Dad's going to go ape if I don't find my shoes. With four-hundred dollars down the drain, my old man is going to be a little more than miffed!"

"Oh, those Jimmy Choos I saw back in the armory?" she asked. "Don't loose your head over them. Sheldon scooped them up as he carried Tiff here. If I'm not mistaken, he should've placed them in your closet."

"Oh – thank God…!" Brit took in a breath.

"But I have to say," she noted, "four inches seems to be a little _too_ high, for my tastes."

"Jennifer, my dear." Brit's brown eyes rolled. "When it comes to fashion, it's always wise to put your best foot forward no matter how high your heels are angled. Besides, you're the last one to talk concerning ridiculous footwear, Ms. Steel Boot!"

Her heels met together with a clang. Her cheeks in her POV gleamed a little too greasy, all the oil pumping to her face.

"Okay… that's one for you."

"Of course." The girl smirked, weakly. "The way it should be."

"Careful now, Brit." She twisted a smirk of her own. "There's nothing to say I _didn't_ poke you with oil instead!"

Those large, dark eyes popped open, expanding as wide as saucers as in her ears the syllables sank. Brittany took in a horse whisper of a gasp whilst Jenny simply blew out a snigger.

"You didn't _dare!_" the girl aghast.

"Nothing to say I did." She smirked. "Nothing to say I didn't – except little old me. I don't process you'll feel anything at first, but we'll be certain when you start feeling a little more than ill…."

"You – bitch!" Brittany… well – cussed. "You didn't dare – you _wouldn't _dare! How dare you play such a vulgar trick! You ought to be decommissioned for that!"

"Hold your stinking horses, Brit." A buzzing in her sockets, her eyes took a roll. "It was just a joke – like I'd really save your existence just to poison you later. You are so damn paranoid!"

"Am I really?" Brit frowned.

"What's that supposed to mean, Brit?" she glanced her a look chary. "Care to enlighten me?"

"Nowadays, what is an earthling supposed to think?" Brit propped up her head. "Shortly after the dawn of the twenty-first century, mankind had found itself divided along many different battle lines. Politics, economics, religion, and even ethnicity – my maternal grandfather could tell you tales where he had to constantly look over his own shoulder in fear of skinheads, gangs, or even another Islamofacist attack. Man turning against his own brother, father killing son, and vise versa.

"With the nuclear age, earth was ready to blow itself out of existence until the Intergalactic War. It was then mankind was ready to live with its unavoidable differences in order to defeat the common enemy, the former Cluster Empire under the monarch only known by the letter 'K'. A planet of robots, Jennifer, of many different varieties, functions, and forms as I've heard you've seen for yourself. All robots united by the single purpose of subjecting all humanity under their cumbersome digits. Armagedroid ensured a swift end to the alien onslaught on all fronts, and even it turned against us!

"Even a couple decades later, we are still reeling from that madness. And then came along little old you from the same woman who 'gave' us Armagedroid in the first place! Terrorized for the best part of the twenty-first century, Jennifer, I ask you again what mankind was supposed to think when they first laid eyes on you. Why did you think Skyway Patrol was so eager to pull your plug? Knowing this now, was it really untenable?

"And now they've seen your darker side, Jenny." Brittany's resolve known even within that weak attempt at a glare. "Sure, the department store thief was a thug, easily downsized, yet you beat him to a hair's breadth of his life. You nearly killed him – the world's weary eyes still aching with history's bitter sting. You should thank God for your little Shell-dork, or your heated action would've certainly blown this fat powder keg once again!"

The abundant silence deafening, pregnant, and nothing more. Her speaker let out but a whisper of hoarse static. Constructed and welded from materials impeccable, still her knee joints held her as though they were about to give; Brittany's words an AP round through her plated chest, into her pacemaker – her heart!

Could Brittany truly be that astute?

"This is your captain, speaking – AGAIN!" the PA switched on; she was saved by its shrill shriek. "Would Jennifer Wakeman of the Wakeman Party please report to the starboard foredeck ASAP? What's left of the crew requires your assistance once more.

"What's more, nonessential personnel are to remain at their posts until the shift change. Man those posts until that time. That is all."

"I… have to go." Sense hard pressed, shaking back in through her head.

"Those who fight and run away, Jennifer…?" Brit tiredly shot. "Oh – wait…! They don't call a retreat, properly anymore. What was the term? Oh yeah – 'advance to the rear', I believe."

"Look, you're exhausted already." She dismissed. "You've lost too much blood today. Just stay in bed and give yourself a chance to heal. We'll finish this later."

"Whatever…." A yawn incredibly made it through those beaver incisors. "Go save the day, as usual. I'll be on the sidelines – as usual – between here and the head, if you _want_ me."

"Thank you, Brit." She nodded. "Get some sleep."

---

The day refreshingly bright, the sky, the clouds, and the ocean even; the appropriate numbers within her view leveled close to seventy. Few clouds but brushed wisps of white far high, she just had to flash that bright ball in the sky her blackened paneling. Already, her circuits buzzed with verve newfound; what she would not give to feel that verve on her paneling, utter warmth tickling throughout. Humans all around, friendly and stranger alike, she envied them all…!

"Well, Captain Casque, what'd we hit _this_ time…?" she asked the one in white complete with proper cap.

"Oh – so this is the Jennifer Wakeman I've ordered about." The bearded man held out his hand. "Such pleasure that we finally meet! Your efforts considering, it's a shame that I treated you no more than one of my own crewman."

"Frustrations with your own boss displaced." She mused, weakly taking that hand into her own, wisely. "The chain of pain grows another link."

"Ha!" he gave her hand a quick pump. "Poetry, I love it! I would love to hear more of your musing, but I'm afraid we're running a little short on time. Heaven forbid that Mr. Krust can't meet with his 'entourage' soon enough, although I don't want to lose an ear over it. I think I'm going deaf already."

"Yes, so on what _did_ we run aground, this time?" she pressed. "Don't tell me it's another wreck. I've had all I can deal 'round pirates till my next tune up."

"It's nothing major." The older salt shrugged. "We seem to run atop a bit of sandbar, probably a piece of the Camarinal Sill. Navigation seemed to have crossed a wire while we were lost in the fog. We kept sailing, despite what everyone saw to the contrary. Perhaps the strait's internal waves pushed us into this position. Still, I don't think it's anything you can't handle."

"If we're high-centered on a sandbar, then I can easily push us back into the water." She shrugged. "No sweat… like I can, anyway."

"Jenny!" from a huddled mass, a voice nasal and familiar called. "_Jenny!_"

"Brad?" she blinked.

Peeking atop that huddled mass was a trio of lengthy spikes auburn, standing at an angle acute. Sweater vest of woolen black slipped out from the crowd, French cuffs of neatly pressed sleeves made way. Glossy loafers hurried the young man closer to she… with a rather sickly boy in a tow of dead weight.

"Brad!" her smile fleeting, it quickly soured into a frown. "And… Tucker. Looking like road-kill – what the heck happened to him?"

"Apparently, the little guy thought he could roll with the big dogs." Brad too frowned sour. "Got a little _too_ carried away with the serious drinks – _right_, Tucker…?"

The little boy's large eyes bloodshot blinked, singly and slowly.

"_What…?_"

"Ah – HA!" one nameless from the huddled mass exclaimed. "I _KNEW_ someone drank my Ketel One! Damn it – where in _HELL_ am I going to get another liter 'round here, _HUH!? _Tell me _THAT_, why don't you!"

"I told you she'd pay for it!" Brad called back.

"God… shut UP!" Tuck's little hands capped his ears, closed eyes frozen in a painful wince. "Too loud…!"

"Brad." Her frown pulled deeper. "What'd you say…?"

"Um…!" the boy's grin beamed sheepish. "That you'd kindly repay for the missing drinks from the bar. A bottle of Captain Morgan, a liter of Ketel One, some V8 juice, and I think some Martini and Rossi vermouth."

"I think I'm poisoned." Tucker moaned. "I think I'll take a goddamn nap...!"

Her teeth bared, servos whirred and buzzed not as irate as the hasty processing within her head. Out to sea with little a witness around, a number of things could happen. Mister and Misses Carbuncle could not miss Bradley or Tucker that much, could they? They might actually take that second honeymoon they always wanted!

"_Bradley…!_" she growled – a _TANG_ as her curling digits met her palm. "You did _NOT_ tell them _I_ was going to pay for it, did you…?"

"Uh… yeah!" he blinked.

"Bradley, I swear to God – if there is such thing!" lost within a rage, her speaker was at a loss. "What'd I do to deserve this – how come I don't have responsible friends? Is it because I'm a robot?"

"It's because YOU'RE TOO LOUD!!" Tucker shouted. "Damn it, if y'all are done here, I'm going back to the cabin. Another nap and an ice pack sounds good!"

Worming out of Bradley's loose grip, the little boy provided quite the entertainment to those on deck. Weaving and stumbling like a carefree drunkard, spewing forth such gibberish so profanely humorous between spittle of organic nastiness fouling the floorboards.

"Sheldon…!" the boy called. "_Sheldon!!_ I was right… she's got a great butt. And her panties _ARE_ cyan!"

The deck exploded with laughter, even Bradley, unwisely. Though she could not feel it, she was certain her pacemaker pumped oil to her face.

"Five shekels for a falafel!?" Tuck exclaimed. "Get out of here…!"

"Yes – _please_ get him out of here 'fore I _do…_" She growled.

"Are you guys done…?" the old, useless salt pressed. "We've an itinerary to keep, and I don't believe either Mr. Krust nor Mr. Schwartz will be happy at wind of more delays. We're a few hours behind schedule as is – do you really want to press your luck?"

"No," she shook her head, "not at all… wait a minute – you know 'bout Johan Schwartz? How?"

"Who'd you think used to sail the baldy around the globe 'fore I boarded the Adrian II, little, tin lady." The captain mused. "In fact, he's the reason I got this job. Schwartz and Krust are rather close, you see, though we haven't heard much word from the former, recently."

Her brow kinked.

"Oh really…?" she said.

"Yes, it seems the baldy kept aloof since he got back to Düsseldorf." The captain shrugged. "Besides hauling your crew around, I don't know what else he's planning. I don't really care anymore, to tell the truth."

Her hand cupped atop the mass of her left's bicep, protectively.

"I'm certain I've an idea…." She said.

"Glad one of us does." The older man said. "You can fill me in later, should you choose. Just concentrate on dislodging this ship, for now. With a dame of your strength, it shouldn't be too much trouble."

Boots clomped, heavily upon the rich boarding as they hauled her for the railing. Light natural a refreshing surge on her many boards of circuitry complex, she more so flashed that bright, light ball in the sky that darker paneling as down her eyes peered. The ship's hull typically narrowed at the stern, it somehow edged the Sill's meaningless piece close to the point. Her chest puffed tight and a firm, upwardly shove; it should not be much of a feat.

"Amazing how such an insignificant piece can trap even the mightiest." She noted. "Going at our speed, couldn't we have simply smashed through it?"

"The _Strog's_ internal waves are unpredictable, Ms. Wakeman." The captain said. "Like a narrow stretch of highway, the currents flow both in and out through this strait. Anything could happen to a ship foolish enough to cross from one current to the other… kind of like us, I'm afraid."

"Let's just hope that sand can hold me." She said, simply.

"You worry too much." Her paneling rattled, the man's reply a hand on the back. "Put it in gear, now. Get this ship back on track, okay?"

A simple nod her affirmation, she swung both her legs over the railing whilst caught in the motion of her own hop. The railing, the hull, the sandbar, each grain but a shimmering speckle, caught in the thick fumes as her VTOL jets let out a vacant hiss. Shifting granules ground her tympanums; she seemed to have sunk an inch or two as gravity lived up to its namesake.

"Alright." She made the motions of a breath, making the sound of it outwardly blowing. "Time to cast off, you damn tugboat."

A huff trapped within her intake, it almost blew out her neck as her hands tried their luck against the hull. Metal warping and buckling beneath her palms, the Adrian II moaned its displeasure. It pained her somewhat to see such fine craftsmanship spoiled even with the slightest of dings, yet this world's ever-shifting waters ensured that scrupulous eyes would never lie upon this profanity again.

"That's it, Ms. Wakeman!" From above, the captain cheered. "Slowly but surely, we're moving!"

More trapped, wasted air threatening her intake, she managed to scoot a foot forward about a half a stride.

"You can do it, Jenny!" Brad called—

The shout but a fragment, little Tucker had finished for his brother rather crassly!

"You… can do it – ALL NIGHT LONG!!" the little boy yelled in slur.

What certainly was the huddled mass had let out a belly laugh.

"_Tucker…!_" She frowned incensed. "When I get back up there, you're going to wish _you—!_"

She finished not; her sinking foot would not let her.

"What the hell…?" she blinked.

"Jenny, what's up?" Brad called. "Something wrong down there?"

"My boot!" Back, she called. "It sank a few inches!"

"Don't panic, Ms. Wakeman." The captain assured with a loud call. "That's nothing uncommon – probably just a little quicksand. You're on a sandbar, after all, surrounded by water."

"That's _not_ helping ME!" she frowned.

"Oh right…!" The captain, her tympanums quickly acute had caught it. "The robot part…!"

"Can't take too much of a risk." she processed aloud. "Hey – you guys believe you can throw it in reverse from here?"

"Like icebergs, this probably is no more than the tip, Jennifer." The captain called. "This is a super-yacht, and probably more of the hull's caught on a piece beneath the water's surface. Just keep pushing."

"I'm running low on room here!" she yelled. "This stretch's as big as a California-king bed – there's no room to build up the potential energy needed!"

Quote the captain's villanelle, so eloquently simple and concise.

"Uh… _what?_"

She should have slapped herself.

"Oh – never _mind…!_" she groaned. "Just tell me when."

"When what?" the old salt asked, innocently.

"What'd you mean, 'when _what_'" she yelled. "I mean when the damn ship's free! Damn it – do I have to do everyone's processing and spell everything out!? Has the world gone back to the stone age – have we really come full circle…?"

"Hey – I'll have you know there's car insurance out there that's so easy to obtain that even cavemen can get it!" In, Bradley tossed his two, useless cents. "I should know!"

"Thank you, Brad," her eyes rolled over a sigh exasperated, "for another _useless_ fact. Now will someone up there pay attention? Not like I've a whole runway to – _push—!_"

The endless granules ever consuming, the little barrier island engulfed one of her entire forelegs! The sole, the thick instep, the large ankle, the calf, and the knee… up her thigh, close to her groin – the sand began to gnaw at the cap of her other knee, already taken to a sharp knee. In positions precarious such as this, she thanked her old woman for simply omitting her nerve endings.

"Jenny…!" The nerve, Brad certainly had to impatiently. "Quit playing around – we've work to do!"

A process dark and surging in her ghost, violent sound and utter fury, it took her everything not to scream…

"BRADLEY CARBUNCLE – you _lazy_ SON-OF-_A—!_"

…Much…!

---

The sand almost alive; Jennifer had dared to set her weighty boots upon its hidden face. Exhausts hot by her scorching blaze, her wide soles must have stood on the sandbar, wrongly. In a feat grand and dreadful, that little, grainy sliver engulfed Jennifer through chapped lips and into its powerful maw! Boots, thighs, belly, chest – distress' fleeting shout and sign as digits sank into the sand – she was gone!

"What the hell!?" Bradley's eyes boggled. "Did you see that!?"

"And, suddenly…." Tucker fought to keep the meal within him steady, "the world's full of holes that people whoosh away in! …_God…_ where's the head?"

Tucker offering not a finger in aid, instead his digits found themselves tightly clasped right before sickly swollen cheeks.

"Just go for the railing, Tuck." His eyes rolled. "Any ideas, Captain Casque – we've got to go get Jenny, and fast! In this water, she'll short circuit in no time!"

"Don't look at me!" the geezer threw up his hands. "I don't even know _how_ to scoop her out. Adrian II isn't equipped with a crane! With her weight, think of the vacuum we'd have to fight. It'll probably take more than the crew's worth of men, currently, to yank her out."

"You mean she's _stuck_ there!?" he shouted.

By a gnarled hand, the useless geezer slipped off that white cap by the small bill. He placed it upon his breast, skewed a little toward the left. Casablanca white as pristine and unblemished as his uniform, the old man was not of those who enjoyed soiling his hands, it seemed. Why dirty oneself when one has a ship's worth of fools to ensue the precarious task.

"I'm afraid so, Son." The captain sighed. "Whatever can be done, we'll have to leave it to Miss Wakeman. That's all we can do—"

"BS!" he snapped, the exclamation made with his loafer's stomp. "There's _always_ something to do – and I'll be damned if you try to stop me!"

"Ah… the audacity of youth." The captain flipped on his cap. "I didn't stop you nor did my crew. You're free to do whatever you wish, but we can't take too long. Mister Krust will have a fit… and I don't believe my old ears can handle another shouting match. I'll be heading up to the bridge, trying to pull the ship free. Is there anything you need?"

"Those explosives that freed the ship before." He asked. "Do you still have any left?"

"Not too many." The geezer shrugged. "I see what you're thinking."

"Good." He smirked. "See if you can get Sheldon down here, too. He's a whiz with mechanics and circuits – he can set them up."

"You're one bold kid, Son." Goatee of the beard pulled into a smile. "I like that in a man. The world today could sure use more of it."

For the first time today, he felt a smile tug at his own lips.

"I learn from the best, Sir."

---

If this could be "pain", Jenny did not like it.

Down through the sand and into a chute – an actual _chute_ – gravity had her hurdled seemingly for the center of the planet. Bumps and bangs, clatters and clangs like bruises every time the chute had changed her direction, abruptly. Soon the piece scraping at the set hem of her skirt had dropped out into oblivion – she caught tight within a freefall!

Should she kick on her jets – should she spread her long-distance wings!? To keep her feeble, to keep her helpless, the utter darkness had cruelly conspired—

—_CLA-BOOOOMMM…! _—

—To throw her onto the floor, brusquely! An explosion of earth grainy and rocky, her tympanums caught it all. Her digits drummed upon something hard and scratchy, her irritable moan brushed her tympanums, quickly; she had landed upon something, indeed – but what?

A process of caution, she gradually rose to her boots, giving what floor a firm, solid tap. A drawl of whir behind her eyes, the corners of her dark view brightened to a lighter shade of green. Blackness still, a pigtail suddenly locked let out a heavy shift – her view a whiteout before a subtle process had the intensity promptly, properly dimmed…!

_Holy cow…!_

She let out a gap as her index depressed a piece of tympanum.

"Captain Casque," she said, "if you're within an earshot, get me Solomon Al. He just has to see _this!_"


	23. Chapter XXIII

XXIII

The final drag bitter, the hot, flaky gray singeing his lips through even the filter, the Haus Brinkmann had finally been laid to smolder on the flat, dirty tray of brass atop his leather topped desk. Another day upon him well, yet another pack already a piece amongst others of insignificancy within the low bin flanking his desk.

The wall clock's hands had just gestured the day was half past noon; there was so much more ahead and his carton sat within his desk half empty. Nothing a quick trip to the market could not fix… if only he had the time.

Elements under his chair at _Schwarzwind, _Incorporated had been working on his little project but a tic less than around the clock, ever since his initial behest back in Tremorton. The Sword of Salvation's spirit repelled by its very infusion, all encased within a humble magneto-optical disk, it should keep the Wakeman Family content when the business had been handled.

On fate's other ubiquitous hand, there is the chance that the Wakeman robot's ghost would reject the program – even accelerate further the corruption! That would not be kosher….

_I'd have tailored Schtauffen's armor for nothing!_ It is an annoyance yet very real. _I can't have that! _

Dear Jennifer ensued well on her errand and his headquartered team _hard_ at work, there was nothing else he could do, at the moment. The heavy drawer's weighted scrape, the Haus Brinkmann pack within the carton freshly vacant, another baker's dozen worth of drags was in order.

"_Herr _Schwartz." Suddenly came a rapping at his spacious office door. "_Herr _Schwartz!"

"_Ja,_ Hans?" he sighed. "What is it? And if it's regarding to your Pain-station, you can forget about it!"

"I completely forgot about that!" the funny, little man exclaimed. "_Danke_ for the reminder!"

"What do you _want?_" he pressed. "I was perfectly content until you showed up. _Danke_ for ruining my smoke even before I had the chance to light up! Expect a little garnishment on your next pay stub!"

"I'll live with it when it's payday, _Herr_ Schwartz." The underling peculiarly said. "Now, will you open the door – there's something I've got to show you!"

A sigh resigned, his probing finger somehow found its way atop the locking button, pressing it to the manufactured extreme. A vacant _clock_ outwardly clicking, a single knock throughout the wide office, his fickle underling heeded the sign unabashed. It was a miracle the doorknob ornate had not been brushed at all with a thin layer of drywall dust; the heavy door knocked its side of the wall rather hard.

Funny, little Haus hurriedly strolling closer in his neatly pressed suit, eyes darkly peering through those aviators, yet unevenly, he held a fold of newsprint in the pit of his arm.

"What's the meaning of this, Hans?" he frowned. "You know how much that wallpaper print set me back? You had better hope there's not a hole when you shut that door!"

"Garnish my wages later, I said!" his lackey professional frowned, too. "Have you been watching Euronews at all or the BBC? It's all over the American media – even Fox News! Fox News, _Herr _Schwartz! _Schande_ on you, _Herr _Schwartz, for paying such scant attention!"

"If it is so important, why haven't I heard anything from _Herr _Schultz?"

Gesturing a dismissive shrug, he took little Hans' boggled pause to do something he should have done – all with a simple shift of the stubborn flint wheel. The first drag always the best, his lungs deliciously full, he shared with his underling the ecstasy. Puffing those thin cheeks, little Hans just had to share that hack of a protest.

"_Mein Gott…_" Little Hans took in a breath fresh of circulated air. "Why anyone smokes is beyond me."

"Why you didn't answer my question is beyond _me…!_" Again, he frowned. "Enlighten me, Hans. Why didn't I hear a peep from _Herr _Schultz just down the hall? If there's anything that should be brought to attention, truly, Schultz will usually inform me."

"But…" Behind those thick aviators, those eyes surely boggled. "_Herr _Schwartz, you can't be serious!"

"Oh – I am serious, _Herr _Frederick." Another drag out just as quick as in, Johan leaned intently forward in his seat. "Why shouldn't I be…?"

"Because, _Herr_ Schwartz," the man let the newsprint drop onto his leather top, "little Schultz doesn't know a horse's head from its tail! He doesn't know a thing! Don't you remember when he dared for one of your special cigars and you snapping the lid on _my_ fingers?"

"You'd be surprised how often that happens." He said. "If there's a point, make it!"

"I _will_ make it!" his underling challenged. "Go ahead and ask him about the news. Go on – ask him!"

With another sigh, his weary eyes rolled for that form standing at attention a little beyond his office door. Contemporary stature yet a little too wide, the collar strained to keep that large double chin firm behind that strained top button. Mustache small, unwisely styled in a pan of lowly infamy, the light whiskers but hinted at the man's true colors. The rest of his hair sat hidden, pressed underneath a helm of Kevlar.

"Schultz…!" he moaned. "_Herr SCHULTZ! _Damn it, look at me when I'm calling for you!"

Those darker eyes batting, the wider man snapped to attention by a joke of a salute, his assault rifle yet slung proper over his shoulder.

"_Jawohl, Herr _Schwartz!"

"_Gott sei dank_, you heard me." He smirked. "Tell me, _Herr_ Schultz, have you caught wind of any news I should've heard."

Deer eyes caught in the headlights oncoming, the larger man shook his head.

"Are you certain you didn't hear anything, _Herr _Schultz?" he pressed. "If you did, feel free to share with me now. …Don't be shy now, you know you want to—"

"I hear nothing, I see nothing, I know nothing!" the odd man yelled. "It was so much better when we had an emperor – that is all I know. Other than that, I know nothing - _NOTHING!!_"

For the first time in a good long while, he let out a laugh hearty – straight from the belly, the best ones of all! Simple Hans gazed at him, peculiarly.

"I don't know why you're laughing, _Herr _Schwartz." The lackey stiffly shook his head. "I told you he's a _bert_!"

"You're such a killjoy, Hans." He sighed again. "Though they're a bunch of roughnecks, you've got to admit the Americans do entertainment the best. 'I know nothing…!' Ah… that slays me!"

Perplexed silence through the office and hall… _Herr _Frederick and Schultz expressed this and nothing more.

"Go watch 'Hogan's Heroes'!" he frowned through his drag. "Come now, _Herr _Frederick. What have you come to tell me?"

"This, _Herr _Schwartz!" Hans dared to shove the newsprint his way. "You've got to see it."

His desk once pristine, the leather topping had been littered upon, messily – off, his humidor was nearly shoved! Many a sliver of dingy gray spread uneven like a broken hand fan, though the theme running through the papers and folds had struck him like a sudden draft. He would forgive _Herr _Frederick this time…!

_Istanbul's Famous Museum VANDALIZED!_ Native Deutsche made it clear as the outside daylight. _Authorities believe religion may be motive._

The Hagia Sophia, he had been there back in his olden days of yore. Deviously shanghaied from his comfortable bed, his parents had deemed it wise for dogma's sake to visit that house of worship… though it had been used as a mosque since Constantinople's fall – shrine of antiquity long since then! Pinnacle of art, Orthodoxy and Byzantium united, providence "divine" permeable throughout, only a fool would dare desecrate it.

_As I almost did…!_

"Vandals had single-handedly strained religious tensions in Istanbul to the breaking point." He read aloud. "Violence between Christianity and Islam, which had not been seen since the Intergalactic War, has been sparked once again.

"Yesterday, approximately at twelve-PM local time, vandals had ensued their operation by first starting a fire in the men's restroom located close to the front entrance. In light of more acts of vandalizing discovered, fire marshals believe the fire, set in a litterbin, had been made for a distraction rather than an actual act. Marshals, too, are stumped by the presence of a small hole on the men's room floor, apparently that had been drilled.

"Once tourists and staff had been cleared due to the fire alarm, vandals began their acts. Columns and pieces of floor cracked, religious artwork scratched, scaffolding for further dome restoration torn asunder. It appeared an unknown tool had smashed through the scaffolding.

"The vandals' _coup de grace_ had been the forceful removal of a round, ancient plaque of Arabic calligraphy that had been hanging on a buttress a little after the Hagia Sophia's conversion to a mosque after the fall of Constantinople. When staff returned, they found the plaque on the floor missing a rather lengthy sliver of it…."

Realization dawned on him like tomorrow morning surely would; it suddenly clicked.

"Is this what you mean to tell me, Hans?" He quickly stood; the backs of his legs pushed away the wheeled chair. "Do you mean to tell me we've competition for the Soul Edge!?"

"_Ja._" Frederick nodded. "You honestly believe that you're the only one questing for the Sword of Salvation or even the Calibur? You of all people should know this whole rat race started again once the crews excavated that castle on the Rhine… when that Tremorton nerd 'discovered' a genuine fragment. Finding this plastered all over the news and the papers, I just came to implore you to check on your assets in play!"

"_Danke_ for the reminder." He nodded. "Anything else the news or you've to report?"

"No, I don't believe so." The man shook his head. "Turkey's news have been a twitter over some kind of jumping freak seen in Istanbul, wearing some sort of cape."

"Cute." He shrugged. "Anyway, I've got some calls and e-mails to make. If nothing else to report, you're to return to your duties."

"You mean grab you some Beck's and a carton of cigarettes…?"

Little Hans surely blinked behind those impassive shades; Johan simply resigned a sigh.

"Yes – _Hans…!_" he said. "I mean get some Beck's and smokes. I'm running low, after all. But before you go, could you get robot girl on the line for me?"

"_Jawohl._"

---

Twinkling crystals, glinting gold – wonderments so sparklingly profane, it appealed to even the most selfish process sparking through her ghost.

Greedy grub and soil had consumed lowly Jennifer in a single gulp, swallowing her into a secretive pit whose massive treasures were kept composed, hidden just by the utter blackout. Precious gems dappling, assortment of gold mounds of molehills, many an artifact of value untold kept within crates and liquor barrels spotting the grotto – all watched over, stoically by an enormous effigy of bastion stiffly sitting before her in the massive alcove, clubbed stave in neutral hand.

The men overjoyed were safe, at the moment. Bradley and Sheldon were beside themselves in sheer delight; Tucker even attempted to swim through the bullion as he had probably seen in his cartoons… when he was not stuffing those tiny pockets with jewelry.

"Solomon…!" the words outwardly stumbled. "What is this place…? Is this what you humans consider Heaven? I process that I like it _a lot! _All the stuff I could get, Mom's debts paid off – and I could finally get that Musique!"

"No, I do not believe that this would be Heaven." Solomon sighed. "Pride, greed, lust… it is more like Irkalla, if you ask me."

"You didn't answer my first question." She said. "What do you think this place is, some kind of pirate cove? Do you think it belongs to _that_ pirate, do you…?"

"No." he shook his head. "If I am not mistaken…. Jennifer, do you not recall my readings? Certainly, somewhere before you have read about the Merchant of Death?"

"The 'Merchant of Death'…?" she repeated, rhetorically. "Oh – you mean like an arms dealer in Kazakhstan?"

"If that helps you." The darker one shrugged. "If I am not mistaken, as I had said before, this must be the infamous 'Secret Money Pit' belonging to Vercci, the infamous Merchant of Death during the sixteenth century."

"Sixteenth century and Souls and Swords!" her brow furrowed with a _clink!_ "Everything we've seen… why does it always come back to that time and that damn legend?"

"Afraid of piracy on the open seas and losses," Sol continued nonchalant, "Vercci commissioned the construction of an vault impregnable to anyone and everyone. Booby traps hidden throughout, it would not surprise me if your friends were swimming in a contaminated element!"

Jingling change boisterous and unruly, it fell to silence at the notice of a single moment. Darks of the eyes around rolled, warily for the boy beside her.

"You have what is coming to you from great Marduk!" Solomon claimed, loudly. "All of you should know better than to leap before you look. Yet, should any of you have any fickle injuries you cannot explain, see me immediately! You crewmen should have cleared and secured this grotto before releasing all restraint."

"What do you think we were doing _before_ you fast-roped down here?" a nameless one called. "_Circle jerking!?_"

The grotto trembled throughout by fierce laughter; even she let out a snigger or two.

"Laugh away." Solomon rubbed at his eye patch. "You will be the ones jerked should this grotto's guardian arrive – Vercci's personal charge! Hiding in shadows, catching whiffs of scent or sounds of proud joy. He shall cut you down where you stand if you are not careful."

"Oh!" called one safely hidden in the crowd. "You mean that pile of bones right by where you standing? I think we can assume those wicked claws aren't going to shank us anytime soon – let alone _this_ century!"

To the right, the boot angled at its artificial extreme. Tympanums vacantly scathed, something loose had scraped her treading underfoot. Curious eyes gazed at the rough piece atop a rare plateau of cobblestone, off natural color and deep in a nasty brown. Grimy and grungy, rather too wet by the grotto's clammy graces, it could not have been simple stone at all…!

The pile near of similar portions had made it rather clear. Many shafts long and short, narrowed and straight, crooked and broad, each fragment festering awash leagues deep within life's oeuvre, not even Poseidon could deny even a shadow to the pile's most former self.

Bones and cloth far spoiled that pile; ligaments had the figure laid composed somewhat as well by a cracked piece of the walkway's railing. Former man rather ostentatious and flamboyant, his ruined clothe dimly hinted loudness and luster in its prime. The limp "garment's" theme gaudy of peculiar and puzzling bondage, nothing but proper strips of leather and cloth stitched few and far between and wrapping straps thick and thin held the ensemble together! The nasty skull's blind, vacant gaze needlessly redundant by a wide fold of hide, another wrap had been pressed inside the grungy maw.

Before the grimy, flat hands laid each a push blade of Indian design – three pronged; a joke bitter and cruel at the former man's expense at this wicked jaw of iron!

"Deader than my dead grandmother." Taste poor, the crewman hidden noted with impunity. "He's not going anywhere."

At the pile's barren toes, she took to a knee.

"So was that pirate." She frowned. "Don't let your greed drop your guard and keep and eye on your six. I'd rather not explain to Captain Casque why you all never made it back."

"Oh – lighten up, Jen!" Brad called from his radiant pile. "Not everyday we stumble into Treasure Island. Forget _Schwarzville_ or whatever – only God knows what kind of upgrades you _can't_ purchase!"

"I'll process over it later." She sighed. "Just make sure Tuck doesn't drown himself in there."

"Speaking of which…!" Brad's dark irises shrank against his encroaching whites, even at her distance. "Shell – _Shell!_ You've seen Tucker around!?"

"Nope." That black, greasy cap shook atop its separate mound. "I think I lost sight of him somewhere inside that jeweled pile two doubloon swells behind you… or was it in the mini pyramid of bullion…? I forget which—"

"_WHAT??_"

Out drawled a buzz whilst her rolling eyes took a lap. Dark eyes open wide; the pair beamed a sort of mar before the thin brow forced the glare ensuing into a sharp dagger.

"Oh – fine!" Bradley huffed. "Be that way, Jenny – but what if he gets hurt!? What're you going to do _then…?_"

"He's your brother, Brad." She sighed. "You brought him down here when I told you, _specifically_ I'd rather have him back in the cabin. You vouched for him – hence – he's your responsibility! If you have to, go ask Sheldon for some help."

"Don't drag me into this!" protested Sheldon.

"What about you then?" Brad pushed, firmly. "What're you going to be so '_busy_' doing?"

"Working towards salvation." She said. "Need I remind you I've practically a time limit? Now turn down the drama and go look for Tuck… again—!"

"_WHA-_HA-Ha-_ha…!_" cried a small, boyish voice, triumphantly. "Forget three thousand box tops – the Musique's practically _MINE!! _HA-Ha-ha-_HA…!_

Her smirk pulled rather sharp.

"I suggest you'd check approximately half a click downstream." She shrugged. "I'd processed I saw a several stacks of barrels around there. Get going 'fore he hurts himself."

Many a jangling ring unruly and boisterous, it was a bit of a relief that her tympanums did not blow whilst Brad clambered and charged out his way. The crewmen wisely made way in a tangled stumble, though not before that hurried sweater vest had its way with that sweat jacket of maroon, dragging it and its owner out of the pile by the head. How the odd pair bullied their way past the far crew was certainly a spectacle, all the way into the dark.

"Forget the Musique!" the little boy, everyone's _favorite_, exclaimed. "Just this handful alone, I could rule the elementary school – _Tremorton_ - all of _Idaho!_"

"_Idaho!?_" Tucker's stet sibling surely boggled. "_You _da _HO!_ You _little_ – when I get my hands on you, you'll wish you'd never been born!"

"Can't we all just… get – along?" Shell had to ask—

A simple negative, cooperatively so fierce and terrible by which the entire grotto trembled almost to its very keystones. Jennifer was certain her POV caught the fleeting trails of a couple falling rocks and even one the size of flagstone.

"By Marduk, the two had been crafted for each other…!" Beside, Solomon mused with a snigger.

"Will you two knock it _off!?_" she growled. "You'll bring the whole place crashing down!"

"They shall settle, Jennifer." Sol rubbed, gingerly at his patch. "Come now. What is it you wish to discern or discover? I am sure I could be of some help."

"Vercci's charge." She asked. "Is this… _he?_"

"If what my tomes have suggested are true," Solomon, too beside, took a knee, "the anomalous clothing and choice of weapons, then it must be him. The Merchant of Death's bewildering guardian of the underworld – 'Voldo'."

"Voldo…?" she blinked. "Who is he – rather… was he?"

"Italy's 'Merchant of Death',Vercci's man of his right hand." Solomon placed a dark finger to his chin, thoughtfully. "If I correctly recall, Vercci had desired the Sword of Salvation to form part of his collection of rare weapons, and Voldo stood as the master of expeditions in the search, even contracting the services of the dreaded pirate Cervantes de Leon, and later accompanied Vercci when he decided to take the search, personally.

"When word came that war had broken out in Italy and that Vercci's possessions had been the first targets, the Merchant of Death grew rather irate. He had moved his fleet, his only possession remaining, on an uninhabited island in the Mediterranean Sea – later would be the very sandbar we ran aground – and had a shaft constructed deep inside which would serve as his vault and tomb. Vercci's final request, his charge was to slay the sailors that helped in the construction to avoid revealing the location of this 'Money Pit', and then later shut himself inside with his jilted master.

"Voldo had remained sealed underground, turning himself into the guardian of the tomb and slaying those who ventured to steal. Rumours of the island had been made, the vast treasures the crew and your friends currently enjoy and this very 'ghost guardian' had spread to the ends of the earth. Years later, the tomes had been inscribed that Voldo had heard his master's voice, commanding him to search the Sword of Salvation once again. It proved no more than chasing the wind at the day he returned to his master again and forever more."

"That's… pretty grim, Solomon." She noted. "Anything at all to suggest he found even a fragment?"

"Maybe he did, maybe he did not." Her eye caught a bit of his shrug. "The tomes are incomplete somewhat. Perhaps there was an instant or an incident the penman simply overlooked. The author had written plenty, I am sure you have seen. In fact, the same man had penned most of the volumes I have brought aboard."

"Sounds like he'd a lot of free time on his hands." She shrugged back.

"Besides, I had just told you Vercci's charge might as well had failed in his quest." Sol said. "Why did you bother to ask?"

She spoke not; instead, her digit uncurled into a stiff point towards an unusual shaft in midst of the death. Undulated intermittently, a pair of gentle swells on opposite ends and sides: it must have been a shape of calcium the likes on which she had never laid eyes. The remains have been laid in the grotto far too long, perhaps.

"Something weird is in there." Her pointed finger gestured. "Don't you see it?"

"I believe I do." The greasy cap of skin nodded. "What do you think it is?"

"Only one way to find out." She took in a habitual breath. "Here goes…!"

Digit curled back and her thin lip nibbled, death had been challenged by a jab quick and simple. Through the garb threadbare and long festering rot, her fist punched straight past the sternum and ribs and out through the vertebrae; the odd piece sat away but less than a foot. Her extending digit carried out the process quick in the ghost, scooting that piece straight into her palm. It had fit into her hand, easily; her typical digits had completely encircled it as she brought it close.

Thin and about as long as her hand and a half, slight of a curve but hinted, the piece of mystery had not been a bone at all! Basic, simple braiding of integral weaves, tightly enveloping a pebbled façade of slight yellow tinge, a pair of dragons serpentine peeked at her from beneath that simple, twisted braid. Proud atop incredibly sat a useless, slatted wheel; a firm shake of her wrist, the wheel somehow did not plummet to the cobblestone.

"It's… a _tsuka?_" she blinked.

"You mean the grip of a Japanese _katana?_" Sol asked, needlessly.

"Yeah…." She nodded. "That's what I called it, but… what would this Voldo be doing with it? It couldn't have been fashioned from Soul Edge. My arm's not freaking out at all."

"Your guess is good as mine, girl of armor." The baldy shrugged.

"What happened to the blade?" she continued. "And how the heck's this _tsuba_ still attached – it doesn't compute! You think there's a sort of trickery to it?"

"Why do you consult me?" the baldy held up his hands. "I sense no sorcery at work. Have you considered the possibility that the hilt and grip could, in fact, be of the same piece?"

"Look at this thing!" her digits smoothed over the _tsuka_, every bump of braids, pin, and ornament caught by her tympanums. "_Ito_ braid, _same_ wrap, and retaining pins probably of bamboo! Japan doesn't make blades like these anymore – this thing's almost a treasure! The only reason I could process why the _tsuba _and_ tsuka_ are one piece is for—!"

A crackle irate – a flash of hot green, the top of the useless _tsuba_ seemed to explode – her smoothing digit must have triggered! Her piece of Vercci's grotto alight in neon, the bursts of light an awesome show in her eyes at high speeds. The far crew, even the siblings were caught of guard in midst of their wrangle!

Though as fast as it had started, the pure spectacle was lost just as quick. Control but relative, the inferno had narrowed into a single shaft of pure, unblemished green – the blade had been found!

"A _light _edge…!" a buzzing behind her eyes whilst they boggled. "That would explain it… I process."

"A light edge?" Solomon blinked, singly.

"A photon-based melee weapon both the States and Japan were developing, jointly a far bit after the turn of the millennium." From her ghost, the accessed database recalled for her. "Though the invention of the machine gun made bayonet – or – _banzai_ charges antiquated, it didn't stop a curious few from exploring their ideas.

"Those ideas really came in handy during the Intergalactic War, namely the first contact with Cluster denizens. They didn't have machine guns, per se, but their weaponry and armor at the time made stuff like the _Ma Deuce_ a relic overnight. Things were looking grim until these babies made it to the front lines."

"How is that?" Solomon asked.

"For the same reasons armor can halt a bullet but not so much a knife." She explained. "Bullets tend to mushroom or shatter, though bladed weapons have a tendency to push the fibers aside and slip through. Armor of Cluster denizens and other alien factions may have been advanced somewhat, yet they still relied, heavily on fiber technology. We found it out soon enough, and then R&D went back to basics! Vibrating blades, light blades – all had been mass-produced but never were formally adopted. The chainsaw bayonet system had been the lucky winner.

"Even so, swords like this exist only for curio despite a collector having a current, class three, destructive device license." She said. "If I'm not mistaken, these things can hack straight through titanium! I never processed I'd ever see one of these, though I can't say my existence is complete just yet. Still, it's definitely a shot of lubricant in the joint."

"Interesting history, Jennifer," Sol was quick to say, "but that does not explain what a weapon of this caliber would be doing in a grotto such as this."

"Perhaps someone on the front lines above dropped it in the sea." She said. "Perhaps someone put it here since this thing couldn't have walked here by itself. I'm not certain, and I could honestly be less concerned—"

"Just 'less concerned', Jen?" out bellowed a voice girlish, in an alto medium deep. "Or just don't care?"

The far boys ceased and desisted; all eyes were a wander around the grotto in a heartbeat. That voice so familiar, so close her ghost was a twitter with many a capricious, familiar process yet she could not place it – let alone from wince in the God-forsaken place it came.

"Either way, Jen, I don't think you'll be to 'concerned' if I just _grab it!_"

Straight down from out the high darkness, the waylaying spook took to a knee deep on the cobblestone before them! Petite figure mostly swathed in black. Proudly, it sported a tactical vest as though it meant some form of 'business', Jennifer could not get past the black boots of _Tabi_ enveloping tight those small shins, ankles, and feet… nor that wide balaclava bedecked by a pair of small, loose ears…!

Many an opportunity fleeting, drowned soon within the ages' flow, yet fate conspired with this rival, eyes of broad slits of pink….

Neither fate nor providence could deny this, her _Mystery…!_


	24. Chapter XXIV

XXIV

"_Misty!_" Jenny growled.

"Jennifer and motley crew in the same place." Through that ridiculous cowl, the petite ninja possibly frowned. "How unpleasant."

"No small talk, Misty!" she stomped, gently. "What're you doing here? I processed the media blackballed you into oblivion, so who'd dare bank you after Tremorton? Did what's-left-of-Vexus-or-Smytus send you?"

"What _I'm_ doing here isn't your concern, Jen." Those wide slits narrowed, the black crown deeply furrowing. "All you have to _process_ is that you've something I came for and I wish to _take it!_"

"And just what would that be…?" Too, she frowned.

"Don't be stupid." The ninja pointed. "You're holding it right now!"

The weapon of light mastered with but an action simple from the olden, simple grip, could Misty truly be after that what was in her hands? Antiquity's curios and treasures around abundantly ample and lavish, why would any man settle for but the most irrelevant item? It was not like Misty at all!

"Are you kidding me…?" she blinked. "Look at this place – gold's practically leaking out of the woodwork – and you're after this old thing! What's wrong with you?"

"I'll do whatever my retainer pays me or tells me to do, Jenny!" a rip of Velcro – thin, pink fingers tore a pouch open on her vest. "It's not my place to question how or why. That's just a part of my duties."

"_Pf…_" she snorted. "You haven't changed much, I see."

"If you don't want to believe it, I don't really care." Toed boots parting ways, Misty took to a deep stance with a set of fingers in that open pocket. "Now fork over that weapon. Don't make this get messy. I just cleaned my _Tabi_ yesterday!"

She retorted not – a loud, sudden _HISS_, the thin slice of green seemingly slipped into the _tsuka_ bouncing in her hands. It lazily made like shuriken, rotations but one or two before her target snatched it before gravity took hold. Misty simply let the lengthy grip drop into that pouch while her fingers eased its flap closed, smoothing the gentle wrinkles a bit. Carefully, the girl eased up to a stand guarded.

"What?" those wide slits blinked. "No fight, not even a protest? Why?"

"Expecting a fight, were we?" Solomon spoke. "Battle and spoils, it seems that why you exist. In my time, I have met several much like you. I often wonder how dismal a simple existence such as that can become."

"I didn't ask you, did I, baldy?" the _kunoichi_ probably frowned again. "Or should I call you 'Cyclops'?"

"You may call me whatever you wish." Sol shrugged. "It makes no difference to me. This planet, beings within this universe share in this meaningless existence together. Why should we limit ourselves to such formality?"

"…I've no idea what you just said!" Misty blinked again. "Who the hell are you anyway? Jenny's new boyfriend or something?"

"Solomon Al." Sol furrowed his dark brow, intently. "But a humble student of the secret arts whom the gods conspired to accompany Miss Wakeman on her errand of fools. Blind leading the blind, both shall fall into a ditch. That is why I am here – to ensure her _trip_ is afar for a long ways. But your sudden appearance…! Perhaps Jennifer's plummet is not as afar as I had wished!"

"What're you getting at?" Misty pressed, defensively. "What do you mean…?"

"Those eyes…!" The dark one clenched his fists. "Nabu as my witness – please… kindly remove your balaclava."

"Reveal my identity!?" Misty's broad, pink slits boggled. "Who do you think you _are!?_"

"A student of the arts who knows much of which remains hidden and secret." He frowned. "Introduction of a new element – possibly _primordial…!_ There is something of you I know already to an extent, but so much more I could come to know at sight of your face. It could ensure our journey's very success or failure."

"Most of the States know what you like, even the Skyway Patrol." She smiled. "There's no point anymore, duly true when your whole body condensates. Besides, Misty, we gave you that blade without much of a fight. It's the least you can do."

"Oh – all right." Lost of her flame, the _kunoichi_ released a sigh of resignation. "This thing was getting on my nerves, anyway."

Slender fingers wrapping taut around a loose ear, the cowl slipped off her wide face downward by a single thrust. A pair of broad, pink slits scratched upon whites large and thickly outlined in black, a button nose took in a clammy whiff, wetly whilst a hand teased a small cowlick of purple. Sense had been shaken back into her head, quickly.

"So… here I am." Misty rubbed at her cheek, gingerly. "Take yourself a snapshot. It'll last way longer."

"Hmm…." Solomon… well – _hummed_. "My suspicions are indeed possible. I knew I sensed a familiar soul within you. It is as clear as the tone of your ashy skin."

"What do you mean?" Misty frowned, clearly. "So what if I'm ashy? Just what the hell do you see?"

"It is quite simple." Sol put the ridge of his hand to his chin, thoughtfully. "You have been _touched_ by the night spirit, have you not…?"

"What _did YOU SAY!?_" The _kunoichi_ went aflame once more. "How'd an Earthling like you possibly know of that!?"

Jenny blinked, quizzically.

"The 'night spirit'?" she processed aloud.

"Answer _me!_" the petite ninja demanded by a growl almost thick with phlegm.

"Attempting to force my knowledge out by words?" Sol's eye rolled. "Futile effort if I had ever seen one. But I do not believe our meeting was one of coincidence. Rather, the gods had conspired to arrange it. Perhaps we were not meant to find the Sword of Heroes merely for the curio and enjoyment of a single party, yet we were to prevent its seizure from another… more _dangerous _one."

"Did you hear me at all?" the ninja snarled. "Answer my question, baldy! How do you know of the night spirit at all—?"

"No, answer _this _question!" Solomon rudely interjected. "Do your questions even come from you at all, or is the ventriloquist simply pulling your strings? How do we know you are not your _true_ master's proxy?"

"Stop it!" Misty's small hands clasped atop her ears hidden by the thick hair, face tautly twisted, caught in a painful wince. "I don't want to _hear_ it!"

"What interest does the night spirit have with Swords and Souls?" Sol asked. "Does it want to restore the Edge's terrible power, the great Inferno or something else?"

"Shut _UP!_" Black swathed knees dropped to the cobblestone; Misty doubled over, beside herself in an agony of which Jenny could only speculate. "Shut up, shut _up – SHUT UP!_ You don't know what you're doing – what kind of thing you're prodding at…! If it hears you… if it – gets _angry_… it'll smother you to _DEATH!! _Oh, God - I can feel it slithering already…!"

"Misty!" Jenny moved closer a step wary. "What's wrong—?"

"This grotto…!" the little ninja's head swayed, lightly. "The _darkness…!_ I can _feel_ it… I can _FEEL IT!_ I… I – got to get out of here…! I got to _GET OUT OF HERE!_"

"Misty, I—!"

She could not finish; the _kunoichi_ backwardly rolled to her _Tabi_, already jumping to a weak stance. Brow of ash furrowed, madly; thin, snarled lips of pink stretched and locked in a deranged grin, utter mania thick as the saliva that had leaked from between those small teeth. Pink slits bloomed red, all the more bedecked by such thick arteries creeping out from the sharp corners.

"_Please…!_" the manic took in a haggard breath. "W-why are you so mad at me…?"

Jenny eased back a step, wisely.

"Misty, we're not—!"

"No, Miss Wakeman." Tympanums caught her chest armor shifting as the back of Solomon's hand tapped it and hovered before it. "Do not interfere – she has become _that_ dangerous! Just let her have her fit."

"Jenny…?" the grotto itself helped to carry Sheldon's far call. "What's going on over there—?"

"Holy crap!" Bradley yelp but all more hollow. "It's Misty! The hell is _she_ doing here?"

"And Misty does not look so good…!" Bradley's sibling noted, pointlessly. "Look like she's about to pop!"

"Hey guys – Jenny's in frigging trouble!" Brad called. "Go help her—!"

"No!" back, she blindly called, holding up a hand level to the shoulder. "Don't do _it!_"

"But – Jen—!"

"BRADLEY!" she shouted. "This is _NOT_ a conversation! Keep – the men – _BACK!_"

"Before…" the madwoman breathed, "I know…! You've never tasted blood – _sweet_ blood… for as long as you've toyed with me! I'm… _sorry…!_ I'm – I'm sorry… I'm not a suitable host…. Again, I ask… find one more worthy of your graces – _please?_ Please…?"

"Misty, please!" she almost yelled. "Let me – no – let _us_ help you—!"

_Kunoichi_ did not kindly reply – Misty let out a scream so horrible, aching, and hoarse, it wrenched her pacemaker, curdled the oil within her very lines before the ninja leapt high for the ragged ceiling. Capricious Mystery, ninja of the twilight, caught in a struggle epic between her demons, she had lost herself into the looming darkness. The grotto's ambiance trickled and dripped against her tympanums… and nothing more!

Lost within the darkness' smothering embrace, Mystery was gone.

"Solomon…!" she took in a habitual breath, deeply. "What… the – _hell…?_"

"This Misty is a fighter, truly." To himself, Solomon nodded.

"Why didn't you let me help her!?" she demanded, her stomp the exclamation. "She's losing her mind! You must've seen it – you're standing right next to me!"

A drawl of a whirr, her shifting pigtails made the rest of her head jerk as they locked behind her head. Exhaust a steamy fog, gases curling and swirling around her boots and thighs, the grotto trembled, the rumbling grumble a steady crescendo.

"I'm not certain about you." Her knees buckled to the ready. "I'm going after her! Don't try to stop me—!"

Sol dared to clasp a hand around the back of her neck, her resolve challenged!

"Damn it!" she frowned. "What'd I just say…? Why doesn't anybody take me, seriously? I maybe a robot, but – _damn…!_"

"You must not go after her, I am afraid." Solomon's head shook, gravely. "Or we all shall be the ones who must go after you."

"You'd better have a frigging good reason!" she snapped.

"Right now, your Misty is resisting urges irrepressible, uncontrollable." Sol said, simply. "Even for that brief moment, it is amazing she had resisted for its duration. It is something only a host can hope to challenge, and its burden cannot be displaced even in the slightest by another… the kind of burden which you are currently forced to carry."

"You mean…" she swallowed, "she's been infected by the Soul Edge, too?"

"No." Solomon shook his head again. "She is not tainted by the Seed. Rather, she is tainted by another force – a force rivaling the great Inferno itself, perhaps."

"This 'night spirit' thingy…?" she scratched her head, appropriately.

"The very same." He nodded. "This is not good…!"

The grotto still without even the gentlest of trembles, her pigtails had fixed themselves back atop her head.

"What is this night spirit, Solomon?" she asked. "If you know something, tell me!"

"No." he said. "But I shall tell you when the time is right, if-or-when the demon of night becomes an inexorable problem. But for now, we should let the matter rest."

Her growl a crescendo, rivaling that of even her pigtail jets.

"Your Misty is a fighter, I have said it before." Sol held up a hand. "If she is as strong as I presume, then she should have little trouble regaining control. Perhaps the daylight outside will aid her."

Gravity held fast on the corners of her lips, speaker letting out a grunt discontented.

"You greeted the ninja with as much hostility as she had surprised you." Sol noted. "It seems you two are at odds, so why would you be concerned of what happens to her?"

"We used to be friends…." She sighed. "But her mercenary demeanor… it just _got_ to me. I lost control… I punched her in the eye… tit for tat, back and forth. She almost left me a scrap heap before she split Tremorton for good. I hadn't seen her since – and now this 'night spirit' thingy…! It's all too much for me to process!"

"Such is the path of Souls and Swords." Solomon noted. "The dead, undead, and a pantheon of spirits! Welcome to it—"

Elegiac Solomon interrupted, rudely in midst of his lyric, her chest armor suddenly cracked open at the middle; away, the boy stepped, cautiously. A broad arm dropped from her chest, a rod unfolding up from the very nadir, and up another arm square before her eyes. The final arm split in two along the length, an opaque sheet thin as a millimeter stretched taut from its pleats whilst those pieces parted even ways.

Opaque screen of even wrinkles before her eyes, her pager monitor had been activated; Mother wanted to check in with her, most likely.

"Dear Jennifer," accented voice not of her mother, Jenny could not get past the sight of that barren, pastel scalp nor that intermingled mustache and goatee, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important, am I…?"

Her eyes batted, incredulously.

"Mr. Schwartz…?"

"The very same." The senior baldy nodded. "Is _Schwarzwind's_ favorite, little asset faring well these days?"

"I've been better." Her brow perked. "How'd you get my pager monitor's channel – it's private!"

"Dear Jennifer," replied Schwartz, "sheer willpower shall always find a way. And when one's as industrious as I, he will find his way much easier. Besides, your charming mother forwarded me the appropriate channel and encryption key when I asked."

She frowned, sternly.

"Doesn't compute!" the monitor seized by the thin edges, she gave it a shake. "That information's confidential - Mom even resisted a federal subpoena over it! What the heck makes you so special?"

"Gee, dear Wakeman girl." Schwartz was beside himself, loose fingers busy with the flat tin in his easy grasp. "I guess you don't want your antiviral software that much, do you…?"

"What's that got do with anything?" she asked.

"The Evil Seed seems to manifest itself throughout an unfortunate in its entirety." The old coot popped the tin open. "Body and soul intertwined for the single purpose of restoring the Soul Edge to the apex of its original power, a host suitable of its taint – duly true should an actual fragment of Soul Edge be embedded in his flesh."

"Talk about giving-an-answer-without-giving-one…." she groaned. "You didn't answer my question!"

A scratch shifting, a halo bright as the sun menaced Schwartz's beard just above his hand loose in its clench. The thin edge deepened into a light, smoldering gray, scathed by the flame. Old cheeks pressed against the bone, little specks of hot red gnawed eagerly, encroaching ever so gradually for the beard.

"Still sharp, I see…." The elder let out a deep breath, fleetingly visible. "Good to see the Seed hadn't won since last I saw you—"

"Get to the point." She pressed.

"The _point_, Jennifer," Schwartz sighed, "is if _Schwarzwind, _Incorporated is to treat your infection, properly, we must be able to access every part of your systems, OS, ghost – the works. Much like a real infection, you can't afford for it to creep into an area and incubate. By accessing your entirety, we'll be better able to isolate points of corruption and quarantine them until the anti-virus is finished."

"And you just expect me to be on standby while I let your men have their way with me?" a corner of her lips dragged into a snarl. "Hell – why don't I drop my skirt and spread my legs for you right here and now!? I bet your little _Hans_ would like that—!"

In chimed a voice from off the screen, "Well, I didn't say that wouldn't—!"

"Keep your pants _on_, Hans!." Mr. Schwartz shot the edge of the screen a look the most foul. "And stop embarrassing me! I'm the face of this company, you know. Isn't that right, _Herr_ Schultz—?"

"I know – _NOTHING!_" another voice exclaimed.

"Ha, ha… of course." The old baldy sniggered.

"_See?_" little Hans exclaimed. "I told you he was an idiot!"

"And I told _you_ to stop embarrassing me, _Herr _Frederick!" Those weary eyes rolled in midst of the loose brow's furrow. "Now run and get my mini-fridge some more Beck's – and don't even _think_ about any private parties! I'll just seem to misplace that French _rack_ you've been eyeing otherwise…."

Little Hans quipped nothing more, but the diminuendo of a pace hurried managed to pop out the speaker, the shutting, clattering door the full stop.

"You _Deutsche_ and your toys…!" she should have snickered. "Before the crew and I find a heading, did you just compromise my ghost's security so you could grace me with a quip or do you have something meaningful to say? If it's the former, I process I should call you 'Bradley'."

"After your friend?" the geezer blinked, singly.

"Bradley Carbuncle, indeed." She smirked, sharply. "Opens his mouth and nothing meaningful comes out like a goldfish."

"Hey—!" the moment's joke let out a protest abrupt.

"It's for horses, don't you know." She dismissed.

"Why I hang out with you, I'll never—!"

Bradley's thought incomplete, but a fragment lost within a torrent of tumbling, clattering clamor behind him somewhere. The last plummet of ancient curiosity made known with a splash, her tympanums caught a giggling immature and the most deranged…!

"I've found it – I've found _IT!_" the little boy, everyone's 'favorite', exclaimed triumphantly. "Sam Spade's Maltese Falcon, Indiana Jones' 'Lost Ark', even the Teamster's infamous Jimmy Hoffa – none, I repeat – _NONE_ – could have as much impact on the world of today as what I have just discovered underneath a copy of the long lost movie 'Blood Ocean'. Men and women of the Adrian II, I present to you that of which Sir Alfred Hitchcock spoke of so many decades ago. Behold… the one – the only… _MacGuffin—!_"

The shifting of trinkets sudden and quick, little Tucker let out a yelp. He must have hit the makeshift pulpit hard; she processed it just by that thick grunt.

"Tucker, quit playing around!" Bradley groaned. "What the heck are you going on about?"

"_GAH!!_" Tuck cussed through that shifting of trinkets; she paid him no notice. "The… the MacGuffin – it's _gone!_ Gone, gone, gone, _GONE, GONE!!_"

"Oh – really bright, Tuck!" Bradley yelled, his grievance forgotten already. "Way to go…!"

The brothers deep within their tits for tats, the altercation needlessly boisterous, it seemed they would be there for a while.

"Okay…!" she blinked. "So what 'important' news have you come to share with me? Any breakthroughs for that anti-virus software?"

"R-and-D and S-and-T are still working their butts off for it." Schwartz took in another drag. "As for you, have you happened across any fragments of Soul Edge as of yet?"

"Outside of a nasty encounter with a crazed pirate, no." she shook her head. "He… _it_ – claimed one of its blades _was_ the Soul Edge, but it was far too small and wieldy. Although, my arm did act up…! We lost track of it, anyway, and now we're stuck in this treasure pit smack dab in the Mediterranean."

"So infamous Vercci's money pit has been discovered." That grayed beard pulled into a smirk. "Don't worry. I won't hold it against you should your digits suddenly get _sticky,_ though I would get some consultation concerning your country's service of revenue."

"So, what'd you call for _again…?_" she frowned.

"Today, I've come across an interesting story that's been making headlines around the world." Schwartz took in another drag, breathing out around that smoldering shaft. "I believe it could very well pertain to your journey. If you're not busy, a trip to Turkey is in serious order."

"Turkey…?" back, she batted it.

"Yes, Turkey." The geezer said. "It's time to get religious, dear Jennifer."

---

Sitting properly before, components flanking at her sides down the lengthy stretch, Vega addressed her Cabinet with tidings of immense delight.

"Components of the Cabinet, fellow denizens of Vega Prime," she spoke, elatedly, "I am quite pleased to announce a fair solution to the problem which had been a vex upon our new form of government. The issue that plagued our palace since the days of great Zero-One are no more."

"Come now, Queen Vega." Prim and proper with his neatly molded, bolt-down torso paneling, the Component at her right fiddled with his monocle of a scope. "You cannot be certain _that _problem has been properly addressed and corrected in mere moon phases. Neither former Queen Vexus nor King K could even begin to process a proper solution to it, and you expect your Cabinet to believe an immature did?"

"What do you take us for?" Burly with a chest rather barreled, the Component at her left banged his digits on the table. "Humans?"

Laughter haughty swept over the Components like a breeze; she paid it little attention.

"Don't get me started on that." She warned, imperceptibly. "But don't you all worry – we _will…!_ And I may be an immature, but I believe I calculated a solution that'll please the Cabinet and all parties involved—"

"Speaking of 'pleasing the Cabinet'," spoke a Component down the long table so far her POV could not detect, accurately, "our new queen should acknowledge that buttering the Cabinet up will get her only so far…! There is great power of your position, Queen Vega, and also an equal responsibility. Principles, ethics, and values the denizens hold – all must be deductively processed and computed within by the sheer integrity of your ghost. Your true stances and positions – _that_ is what shall impress us. You would be wise to save that to your ROM."

Agreement swept in on humor's fleeting tail, the Components affirming the far one with a murmuring nod.

"Aren't you the lively one?" her thin brow kinked. "What's your model number, Component?"

"My Queen, I am Component Model R081N." The far one said. "For simplicity's sake, perhaps you would wish to call me by 'Robin'. I've been a Component ever since your grand-paternal had appointed me. Who'd have processed that I'd function for this long? Even so, I am here – we all are here to serve."

"Serve whom?" she asked.

"Males and females of Vega Prime." "Robin" noted. "That's what should've been the Cabinet's loyalty all along, not solely the monarchy. Too, store this in your ROM should you be certain of transforming the government."

"I process I shall, actually." Upon her podium, her thin digits drummed.

"Enough of this old shell's lectures." The far Component said. "What've you come to propose to us this fine sunlight cycle?"

"Glad you inquired." She smiled. "After much speculations and processing, I've come to a decision which I couldn't be more satisfied. Components of the Cabinet, I propose that the palace's new janitor… is Krackus!"

Silence deafening and nothing more, yet speculations aloud the stillness of the room could not be deny. Discussions were an upsurge steady, bobbing nods, as few there were, the climax for which she had longed, had estimated! An immature clean and sleek as she, could she have really gotten through to these old rusts?

"That's not a bad speculation…!" Component Robin shrugged.

"Two meat-bags with one whipping." One not as far processed aloud. "Finding a place for him, thereby keeping him out of our wiring while simultaneously keeping him indefinitely busy with that fool's errand!"

"Genius!" Another just as far yelped. "Brilliant!"

"Order, Order!" the Component at her left called. "Let's settle this. All in favor of Krackus as the palace's new sanitation 'engineer', speak 'Aye'—"

The simple room rocked alive with a reiteration deeply resonant!

"All oppose…?"

Did an unauthorized with such _rusty_ senility…!

"_Me!!_"

Robotic manufacturing antiquity, its hobbled offspring squealed onward by a single, tiny wheel… straight into the adjacent wall. Not even the cumbersome pincers of his ridiculous arms could keep that mandible, perpetually ajar, from impaling the sheet metal. Servos obsolete almost aflame, a thick smoke swirling from out that screeching axle, an exercise in futility… until his shell clattered on the flooring.

"The 'ayes' have it." The left Component leaned for the old fool. "Krackus, you are to report one of the palace's janitorial closets, effective immediately."

"Wait…!" that odd mandible twitched. "Don't I get a say in this, Penny—?"

Alive once more, the room trembled by a resounding "_NO!!_"

"Okay then." Those cocked, bug eyes blinked. "Where's that oil fountain at? I'm certain I left that Automatic Disassembling device somewhere around there, or was it the mizzenmast? _Swab the poop deck…!_"

Beside himself on the flooring, onward senile Krackus dimly carried, as would she when the lumbering chamber guardians carried that fool towards his futile errand, out of the room!

"First order of business completed." She smiled. "On to our second order of business, I'm certain you've processed and computed during this sunlight cycle's initial startup."

"Indeed, we have." Prim and proper fiddled with his scope. "And we must say that we are most concerned by this proposal, my Queen."

"And just what are you concerned about?" she asked. "If we truly wish to move towards a type of equal republic, then it should be in Vega Prime's best interest to grant these in question the equal rights and protections other denizens take for granted. Considering they haven't had these sort luxuries for well over a century, I'm certain they'll appreciate and hold them more valuable."

"Freeing our only source of hard labor?" the burly one's dots for POV boggled, overwhelmed by the processing. "Is your ghost saturated?? The Ministry of Labor will pitch a—!"

"I, too, am uneasy concerning this." Component Robin said. "It's clear you haven't processed the second or third-order effects – even beyond."

"The… what-and-the-what…?" she blinked.

"Exactly." Robin gestured. "The humans aren't as stupid as we process, and they simply won't forget the atrocities the Prime has burdened them with. Considering what you're proposing will lift the reproduction restrictions, their numbers could rival us in time. What's to state that old fears, angers, and hatreds won't arise once more and we'll be back where we started centuries ago! Time may heal wounds, yet it could very well aggravate them as well…."

"And don't you dare forget about those… _unions _most illicit and profane!" the right Component almost choked on his own lubricant. "Flesh and metal, blood and oil in a synergy I don't even want to describe! _Cogs… _it's enough to make my oil-flow back up!"

"Must we impart to you concerning the monster humbly acknowledged as 'Nyx'…?"

She blinked.

"Nyx…?" she repeated.

"The very same." Robin nodded. "Born from great Chaos – a very union most illicit and profane, his offspring are many and telling. With another _undesirable_ progeny dubbed Erebus, Nyx fathered Aether. Asexually, later he had fathered Momus, Ponos, Moros, Thanatos, Hypnos, the Oneiroi, the Hesperides, the Keres and Fates, Nemesis, Apate, Philotes, Geras, and Eris – the very beings Prime denizens have come to loath… and even fear! That is the very reality of what your proposition can bring."

"The government could barely contain 'The Theogony' as it was." The left Component frowned. "As much as I hate to say it – if not for former Queen Vexus, The Theogony would've long since overwhelmed us! You, me, this whole Cabinet, and the rest of the Prime would've been shredded scrap while they roamed free to terrorize the rest of the galaxy!"

"Threatening the delicate balance of the universe at large." Right Component scratched at its naked optical array. "Only recently, in context of documented history, have we reaped the benefits of this _Pax Universa_, trade, migration, knowledge – tranquility abundant and throughout. Theogony threatened it before, ensuring that all parties would turn against us as they almost did during the Intergalactic War. That madness lingering in our ghosts, and you dare propose to possibly unleash it once more?"

"Perhaps a bolt or two needs to be tightened." A faceless Component mused.

Laughter brushed across the table's length unnerved; Vega simply scratched at one of her antennae.

"Nyx and this 'Theogony'…?" she shook her head. "Was there a read-me file I missed during startup?"

"So our new queen hasn't heard of it before?" Component at her left scraped its blocky knuckles on its barreled chest plate. "What a shocker…."

"It's not surprising you've caught not a word of it." Component Robin shrugged. "You've been functioning not long enough for your ROM to recall. Besides, your mother initiated a complete information blackout regarding anything of Theogony or Nyx before the start of her so-called 'XJ9 Crisis'. Nyx had finally been captured and his gang disbanded, you see."

"And to think that whole mess started with that lonely earthling…!"

"Earthling?" she blinked.

"Yes, yes…." Right component sighed. "A tourist from earth who'd been mistaken for slave labor. If not for she and an unscrupulous denizen, Nyx would've never been created! Erebus, too, for that matter… but that's another file for another sunlight cycle. Don't you agree, MR081N?"

"Correct." Robin nodded, singly. "What has happened is irrelevant. They had been born, they had been disbanded, and their fearless leader is floating off to his cremation. I'm supposed to get a call from the Ministry of _Modifications _regarding it, in fact."

"An earthling and a denizen…?" she forced a bit of oil-meal back down her intake. "You mean, those two _actually…?_"

"A coupling the most illicit and profane the Prime had ever caught!" the left Component shivered. "Flesh and paneling, blood and oil… _ugh –_ what on the Prime did you process we had been writhing about. It's just so… _yuck…!_"

"Hmm…" she put a digit to her chin, thoughtfully, "on the face of it, it does strike me as kind of weird. But the more I process, I'm not really certain it's _that_ taboo. Is there another way for us to better reconcile with the humans than that?"

Silence strained, expectant, and nothing more; optical arrays were on her with military precision, most strained into a sort of quizzical kink.

"Are you _nuts!?_" a far Component's array boggled. "You're off your damn rocker – and blew up the rocker for good measure!"

"An immature these days…!" left Component shook its head. "My optics would leak for the future, but I can't spare the lubricant!"

"Fellow components, I'd shut down this debate a little more," Robin sat beside himself, poking and prodding at what must have been his tympanum, "but I've that certain call to answer. If you'll excuse me, I'll just spin around."

"Queen Vega," the right Component rubbed at his small crown, "I do understand your position of reconciliation, perhaps civil unions a step forward – but I'm certain you'll find heavy resistance against allowing those capable of procreation, and not just within these walls—!"

"_WHAT!?_" over the discourse, Robin made his loudspeaker known. "_HOW!? _He's practically stuck in deep space! I'll ought to have your head on a hydraulic press! You'd better have a good answer for me, Warden, so I'll ask this one more time…!"

She rubbed at her antennae, gingerly.

"What do you mean that Nyx escaped…?"


	25. Chapter XXV

XXV

Land of Earth's rising sun, below her sore eyes could make out the sweep of the archipelago. Yet another country of island chains, a nation on the verge of feasting amongst themselves equally to that other country of the large peninsula, still she lowered altitude by a single dive.

Undulated lands, the famous megalopolis an arm toss away, the islands' sacred mountain struck her almost like the flock of birds far too close. Five lakes encroaching, a setting justly picturesque, something tranquil resonated of this place when sightseers did not cause a stir. Perhaps that was why her feet touched ground in the nearby forest after that spat with _goody_ Jennifer, finding new work… finding relief from her corrupted _gifts._

Sunlight powerful, brief as ever, always fleeting, yet felt those rays so soothing – piercing her ashy skin, quelling the tumult sheer of her weary soul. Again would twilight bravely crawl across the field of endless blue, again would that… _thing _slither within her mind, around and throughout her being. Poking and prodding at every nerve, gnawing at the back of her brain until she resigned to the darkness complete – the heavens deepening in color at a glance passing, she could feel its tingling again!

_No…!_ It, Misty waged against with a shake of her head. _NO! Can't lose control – can't lose control…!_

She had to end it for now!

Through wisps of clouds, utter cold sharp as razors on her skin exposed, trees were almost a sea unto themselves at the hallowed mountain's foot – sharp, jagged crests and waves that scratched at her as inside she dove. Strips of flaky white on her gray flesh, it was hardly a thing to shed a tear as her _Tabi_ touched her down, properly. A rub hasty on her hands and cheeks, she could deal with it later.

This country's sinister sea of trees – the locals' _Aokigahara_ – ground solid as boulders, many a tree in the similitude permeating throughout, it was easily clear how a foolhardy could lose themselves within its smothering hold… as she almost did!

But not she, Misty had her hosts to thank. Boots of _Tabi_ heavily treading the ground, a sizeable portion rang out with a subtle _bang_; her current place of dwelling she had found, thankfully once more. The forest debris off the trap door by a single sweep, she uplifted it by the rope handle. Keeping it at bay in an angle semi-acute, she slipped her way inside with her feet in the lead.

Down, down the chute – the dank, _dark_ chute – twisting caverns a plenty, they did little to relieve her of her constant tormentor. By the chance of good fate, it was a miracle she had tumbled into her hosts' dwelling, previously. Though many were about to have their way by brutal cleaving of the swords, they could not finish her.

She would not let them; their fickle master _would not_ them!

A faint light at the end of the chute, the subtle madness gnawing at her mind reeled just a bit. It was not long before the chute bottomed out and her feet kept her up to a sliding stand. Hosts at the ready with plenty a various blade and a few long arms, all of them stood down when their almond eyes caught sight of her broad, pink slits.

"Oh…." A ninja in equal black scratched at his mask. "It's you, Misty-_san._ We're wondering what'd been keeping you."

"Please…." She rubbed at her splitting crown. "Please, Takashi_-san_…. I'm not in much mood to talk right now. God… my – _head!_"

"We've some aspirin and ibuprofen for you amongst other things." Almond-eye teen no older than she, handsome as he was for a human this side of the planet, Takashi-_san_ yanked off his balaclava; other ninja around soon exposed themselves, calmly. "If you need anything else, Misty_-san_, don't hesitate to ask."

"_Arigato._" Her bow came more as a weak nod. "Forgive any disrespect – my head's _killing _me…! Is Lord Yoshimitsu around?"

"He's been expecting you, actually." A fellow _kunoichi_ pocketed her _kunai_ as well the other ninja and their weapons. "Which reminds me…! Did you find his little item?"

"_Uh_ – yeah…!" Velcro ripped as she tore open a pocket of her vest. The _tsuka_ easily nestled in her palm, its width that thin. "Here you go. Don't know why he'd want such an antique."

"Lord Yoshimitsu's a fickle man." The _kunoichi_ fiddled with her ponytail. "No one's sure how or why he does the things he does, but one thing's for sure – it's a scene to watch!"

She tossed the woman the tsuka underhand; the woman's eyes gave the grip the once over before she delegated possession to another. Pain gnawing at the back of her brain, its way forward burnt by a gaping, red crack, cool shade of the hideout gave all the impulse her torturer desired! Pebbles loose on the floor, they dug into her knees though she did not care.

"Oh, God… not _again!_" she clutched her head. "No, no, no, _No, NO!_"

"Misty-_san!_" Tanaka-_san_ exclaimed. "What's wrong!?"

"I…!" she almost choked. "I can feel _it_ again…! It's getting restless – must… _KILL!_"

"Oh no." the kunoichi must have gasped. "That… that – _thing_ inside's starting to slither! What happened out there, Misty-_san_? Tell us!"

"See what happens when you welcome an outsider?" a ninja safely faceless groaned unwisely. "Crap like _this_ happens! Why Yoshimitsu saw anything good in her is beyond me!"

"Not now, Chipatama-_san!_" Tanaka-_san_ growled. "Any of us could argue the same about you! Now, go make yourself useful for once and get Lord Yoshimitsu at once! Hurry 'fore it's too late!"

"_Pf… _fine…!" Chipatama-_san_ moaned. "Knock yourselves out with the _bakayarou… _before she completely snaps…."

Hurried steps abundant and many, a pair must have carried away the _chipatama, _safely. She would drown him in a puddle of his own fluid later…! Fluids… _blood…_ that fresh crimson in a glass of stemware incandescent, a wedge of lemon and a shaker of salt but simple accoutrements. Her tongue could not help but smear a fresh coat of saliva on her teeth – it bothered her not when she pricked its tip on a canine. The taste wet and warm, bitter with a hint of copper, she had never sampled blood before…!

Yet it could not help but taste so very, _very_ good…!

"_Kuso!_" the _kunoichi_ took a knee before her, squarely, foolishly! "There's blood in her mouth and her eyes are half past bloodshot! Her _ki_ is practically gone – that thing's taking over!"

"But why…?" Tanaka-_san_ exclaimed. "The night spirit might have cursed her, but she's never had a problem with it before! Why now!?"

"Something must've happened when she was out." The _kunoichi_ shrugged. "Something in that secret money pit might've aggravated it. Whatever happened, she's paying for it now!"

"Forget about running, Atsuko-_san_." Tanaka-_san_ probably said. "No safe place to run if that thing breaks free. Whatever can be done, we have to keep her steady until Lord Yoshimitsu gets here."

"You don't know that!" Atsuko-_san_ asked. "This is _dangerous!_ I like Misty-_san_ as much as you, but I still say we cut the loss and get out of hell out of here—!"

"You… dare… _abandon ME!?_" she bared her slick teeth in a hoarse snarl.

"Misty-_san,_" insignificant Atsuko held up her hands; the _kunoichi_ would make the poorest of meals, "I didn't mean—!"

"You're such a nuisance!" she took in a haggard breath. "Go _AWAY!!_"

Away by a weak flick of a swat, Atsuko found herself firm against the far wall of the cavern, Tanaka-_san_ let out an amusing cry.

"_Atsuko-_san!" he shouted.

"_Ugh… _forget about me, Tanaka_-san._" Ponytail full of puffy body, it weakly shook side to side. "It started…! The Misty-_san's _we know is probably gone. Just get the other Manji members out – get _yourself_ out of here! I'll fend _it _off for as long as I can."

"_No!_" Tanaka-_san_ exclaimed. "I'm not leaving you here—!"

"_Shut up!_" Foolish Atsuko pushed up to her _Tabi_ shaky. "Got to be quick – just toss me a _shinken!_"

Almond eyes rich in color equal, they beamed Tanaka-_san's _utter awe paralyzing – rather _delicious _– yet past that rich tone, deep within him something had been stirred. Resolve passionately burning, a spark divine, his soul's very flare! She had been privy to it once before when she first had dived into the endless sea of trees.

In the vastness of trunks and bountiful green, twilight well encroaching and somehow gone astray, she had suddenly been blindsided by a wreck of a man inconsolable! Never had sheer terror held her steady, solely by seizure just at a sharp glimpse of his humble blade. High as the heavens in delirium, drunk on his very rationale hasty, that blade had surely been bought for a purpose single and maniacal; because, simply, he felt his inexorable time drew near did not mean he wished to jilt alone…!

_And then… _her mind a violent torrent of which her brain struggled to make the slightest of sense, _Tanaka-_san _arrived. Disarming, knocking that loony out… he saved me…_ _He _saved_ me… and he was only looking for berries…!_

"No." Tanaka_-san_ shook his head. "I won't!"

"Are you _blind!?_" Atsuko's almond eyes crossed. "_Baka! _Can't you see Misty_-san's _losing it? You've got to evacuate!"

"Aren't you forgetting, Atsuko-san?" Tanaka-_san_ sighed. "We're a team – all three of us. She may be fighting amongst herself, but we can't just treat her like the enemy! If not for Misty_-san_, neither one of us would've survived the Mishima _Zaibatsu's_ latest onslaught. The whole Manji Party would be dead! Everything Lord Yoshimitsu taught us would be for nothing!"

"The Manji _will BE _dead if that _freak_ breaks loose!" Atsuko yanked a _kunai_ free of her vest whilst her delicious larynx growled. "Lord Yoshimitsu's teachings will be for nothing then. Now get the _hell _out of here!"

"But, Atsuko, you don't—!"

"No, Tanaka-_san –_ _YOU_ don't get it!" Atsuko dropped into a gentle crouch. "I'm okay. I can take care of this! Just – _go—!_"

"No, child." A heavy voice, saturated and digitized, spoke out, bravely. "No one is going anywhere."

The voice nearby – blaring from the door across the room – her sore eyes batted at the figure sporting that armor ridiculous as ever! Hot orange with decals flamboyant and somewhat clashing, clustering specks of green and even purple, yet somehow it brought forth the subtle hues and tints of those pantaloons, highly detailed. Headdress complex and cumbersome even more toward the rear, several glowing fringes draped across the back like tendrils.

Appearing that man veiled in mystery once again, she would never get used to that horrible mask even through that peculiar visor.

"Lord Yoshimitsu!" the exclamation resounding!

"_Hai_, it is I… Yoshimitsu." Her fickle master gestured. "Your teammate is in trouble, Atsuko-_san. _Misty-_kun_ over there is fighting for life against that which possibly has ailed her since her birth – and you _dare_ would strike her down while she needs your help the most? Where have I gone wrong, pray tell? Have you forgotten of what I lectured to you since you've joined?"

"'Those without courage oppress the weak'." The _kunoichi_ sighed. "I know. But – Lord Yoshimitsu, you can't expect us to sit while that _thing_ claws its way free!"

"I'm well aware of the danger this 'night spirit' poses." The peculiar one shook its head. "In fact, I'm probably more knowledgeable of it than you. How else would I recognize Misty-_kun_ as one of its proxies? Knowing this, you should not hesitate to call me should her _other_ self rear its ugly head."

"But…!" Atsuko rubbed at those eyes… those supple, tasty orbs through which Misty could run a toothpick! "We _did_ send for you…. Didn't Chipatama-_san_…?"

"Really?" she was certain that gaze of red flickered. "I didn't see him—"

"_Pf…!_" that teasing ponytail swayed. "That's typical…!"

"Speaking of which, Lord Yoshimitsu," Tanaka-_san_ said, "could you _please_ handle Misty-_san_ for us _before_ this turns into a crisis? Please…?"

Knocking at her doors with a battering ram of its very design, the demon inside perhaps smashed through the first; twilight must be upon the sacred mountain already. Nicking, scratching, clawing its way out her mind's dark, dank recesses, time again was not on her hosts' side… or hers…! Yet the odd master found what time to simply lean his head, _curiously!_

"_At…!_" the words struggled out her tight throat. "_Atsuko… p-please…!_"

"What?" the _kunoichi_ blinked. "Misty-_san –_ is that you speaking?"

"Don't – know…." She groaned. "How much time… _I've…!_ So… so – please, Atsuko-_san – _Tanaka-_san_. Strike… me – _down…!_"

"Misty-_san,_ no!" Tanaka-_san_ shook his head, fiercely. "We could never do that…!"

"Ever since I was a little girl," she breathed, "my fellow people – have – _always _been afraid of me. I didn't know why until… I _discovered_ the – secret… of my birth. Said to be the one born of fuchsia mist… ensuring that _I'd_ become strongest of my planet, sacred mantras forbidden and long since forgotten, my dad – my _own_ _father_ cast the whole grimoire upon me. The night spirit and I… we've been as one ever since!"

"Why are you telling us this?" Atsuko's brow furrowed.

"Misty-_san_, it's okay!" Tanaka-_san_ coaxed, gently. "We're just here to help you with it!"

"True, yet you look and do not see, Tanaka-_san._" Lord Yoshimitsu pulled his odd headpiece upright. "There's more to it than mere diatribe. One must listen with an open heart and open mind sometimes."

"I'm not the only _cursed_ upon this planet…." She sniffed. "Throughout the galaxy… we are legion, for we are _many…!_ The night spirit – it's been searching for a host – _worthy_ of its true taint… had been for a long time – and it _found_ one far before myself! It's _here…! _Somewhere on this planet – it's _here!_"

"You're not making any sense, Misty_-san!_" Tanaka-_san_ frowned. "If the night spirit found a worthy host, why should we strike you down at all? If it's a problem, you'd be a vital ally—!"

"Or your worst nightmare…!" she warned. "Should my inner doors fail… should I be… _overwhelmed_ by the true host's influence or the night spirit itself… I – _won't_ be able to stop myself. Kill me now… before this thing takes _over—!_"

Suddenly, into the room, a velvet cloud of luminescence sparkling bellowed out the master's _toothy_ mouth. Closer, it blew simply by what little air conditioning. Plumes of sparkles and rich deep colors inwardly swirling, so captivating… so… _foul _– it spoiled her nose, her crown – her skull so badly the room started to blur and warp every which way…!

And she was out.

---

The city rolling slowly encroaching upon the corners of the bridge's windshield, its sudden split by the strait abruptly picturesque, Jennifer had only one question circulating in her ghost.

"This should be the proper city, right?" Jenny asked. "Istanbul…?"

"That's correct, Ms. Wakeman." The old salt nodded. "'The City on Seven Hills', the city had many names through its history and according to the culture, language and religion of its rulers. 'Byzantium, Constantinople' and 'Stamboul' are examples that may still be found in active use. The etymology of the names and an extended list of old names can be found on the Internet. The historic peninsula –the city's oldest part – was built on seven hills, also represented with seven mosques, one at the top of each hill."

"Hanging desperately onto what it was while embracing the new at the same time." She noted. "Peculiar."

"Not really." The captain shrugged. "It's been a balancing act for Europe and the rest of the world for the last century. Dreaming of a modern world, a better world, and too, they choose not to forget who they are and where they came from. Besides Third-World Africa, is it any different than any other place on Earth? I don't think so."

"We're making port soon, I assume." She said.

"Only for a short while." The captain rubbed at his beard. "Adrian II just needs to have its tanks topped off, and we'll be on our way for North Italy. Your little crew wished to go to Germany, right?"

"Correct." She nodded. "Trekking for an old ruin sitting on the Rhine. Maybe we'll find what Mr. Schwartz is after… and possibly myself."

"It's quite a _trek_ for _Deutschland_ from here." The old man shrugged. "I don't think the car could make it even on a full tank. The Cousins Krust can moan all they want – it wouldn't be right just to abandon you upriver without a paddle."

"I can't swim, anyway." She sniggered.

"And there you go." Captain Casque nodded. "Either way, we should be making port within half an hour. Get your crew squared away when we dock and finish off this little tour. Mr. Schwartz better be onto something here. After recent news of what happened here, I don't want this ship docked overnight. Radicals are just _looking_ for a reason to start some international incident."

"Why…?" she blinked. "What happened?"

"Apparently, some nut vandalized an old mosque on the Golden Horn." The captain said, passively. "The Hagia Sophia – it's quite beautiful, almost spectacular during the night. I think it used to be an old Orthodox church before the Ottoman Turks conquered Constantinople. Anyway, some nut started a fire in the restroom, ravaged the structure, and tore an antique plaque to pieces. They only wanted a sliver of it, though. Don't know why."

"_Pf…_ so _that's_ why Mr. Schwartz told me to 'get religious'." She sighed. "I should've processed better."

"At least know you know… certain_ – whatever_ – of what you're looking for." Captain Casque shrugged again. "Just do your little investigation and get out – the sooner, the better—!"

"Captain Casque." the speaker aboard the control panel crackled. "Captain Casque! This is Sailor Brody. Do you read me?"

"Hold on sec…." The captain plucked the squared microphone free of its holder, the "T" button thumbed whilst the free set of fingers toyed with a knob. "Ah… _there!_ This is Captain Casque speaking. What can I do for you, Sailor?"

"There's no easy way for me to say this, Captain," wasting no time, Brody put Casque on the defensive, immediately, "so I'm just going to say it. We've been looking at the main breakers – they're a total wreck! It's going to take us all night and a couple new parts before everything runs at capacity again."

The olden Captain blinked, doubtfully.

"Are you sure that's right?" he asked the squared microphone in hand. "That Lee boy seemed to do a fine patchwork. How else did we get this far?"

"This _far…?_" the Sailor replied. "It's not that far at all, really. Europe's compact, Sir, more so than the US. You know that, I bet. Lee's patchwork might have gotten us this far, but it's nowhere near seaworthy. It's just a bandage for wound that needs stitches!"

"Can you repair it?" he pressed.

"Not without time and some new parts, Captain." Brody said. "I hate to say it, I know how you feel right now, but it looks like we'll have to make port for the night. But I promise you that the work should be done by sunrise. We should've recovered enough trinkets from that underground vault to cover more than expenses. Though that MacGuffin the boy found-and-_lost_ would have set us all up for life…!"

"It'd better for your sake, Sailor." The captain frowned. "Or _you'll_ be the one with the earful of Mr. Krust, not me! Over and out."

The microphone refitted onto the panel rather harshly, a _bang_ outwardly ringing.

"Damn, why does this crap always happen?" Captain Casque rubbed, gently at his tired eyes. "Murphy must be in full effect today or something. Looks like we're stuck here for the night."

"Really?" she blinked. "For the whole night?"

"Won't your friends be thrilled?" Casque groaned. "I don't think they'll be too pleased. I'd rather be on my way if I were one of them."

Stuck for the night, the city of Istanbul her oyster full of its little incandescent pearls and perks, a smile could not help but tug at the corners of her lips.

"I wouldn't go that far." She beamed. "I can process a little certain someone would be a little more than thrilled. He's in the for night of his life, I'm certain."

"So little Jennifer's thinking 'bout a date, yes…?" the captain chuckled, weakly. "Always good to see love can find itself in the air, at any moment. Perhaps thinking 'bout my own sweetheart might give me something to take my mind off the crew… what's left of them, anyway."

"Oh?" she said. "Just what were you planning?"

"Might give her a call." Casque sighed. "Maybe a couple. I haven't seen her in a long time. I wonder how well the boys are faring. One probably adoring his sweetie… and the other two better not be shooting pellets off the overpass again! Boy was I going to whack them one after I got that call—!"

The captain's weary eye rolled her way; standing idly, she shot back a single blink as her twisting boot toed the flooring.

"Oh – forgive me." He scratched at the side of his head. "It's not your concern. Anyway, I'm going to start the final docking preparations. You can throw together a team in the meanwhile. Don't wander aimlessly around Istanbul, I must warn you. Despite pick pocketing, terrorism's more of a worry – especially now. Try to keep any visits to tourist areas like Taksim Square or Galata Tower short, okay?"

"That's fine." She said, simply. "Don't plan on doing much sightseeing today, anyway. That's more for tonight. Considering this girl doesn't want to draw too much attention, do we have any more discreet methods of travel aboard?"

"Actually, we've a car somewhere aboard." The captain nodded. "It's a hybrid so no need to worry over fuel so much, and the windows are tinted. Not a bad little car, just bring it back in one piece, okay?"

"Okay." She nodded, too.

---

Content with the longer night's embrace nevermore, Misty's eyes had to pop open. Neither sore nor weary, the rough, barren ceiling of her quarters came into easy focus. Her abs dragged up her torso, yanking her into a gentle hunch. Hands in her sight, skin ashy still with fingers slender and delicate since the day she was born.

_So…_ she took in a breath, _the worst didn't happen after all…_

Tanaka-_san_ and Atsuko-_san _fearful for existence, Lord Yoshimitsu and that foul pant, all of it was blurry smear in her mind, and it was given her malicious _other_ half was at its very core. She had felt it creeping throughout, strength in surge whilst her own ways of existing – her very humanity lost in her mind's oblivion. Existing solely for herself, _loving_ only herself, perpetual thoughts a terrible wraith: it was a miracle she did not lose it, completely.

Cold permeating her quarters and the complex throughout, Goosebumps dappled evenly on her naked arms and legs. She had been stripped of her equipment and frivolous clothing sometime while she was _out_, most of it unevenly draped atop the back of an out-folded chair. At least they could have had the decency to cover her with the quilt; she could not have been _that_ heavy to lift again.

"Awake, I see?" came that offbeat voice digitized. "How are you feeling, child? Alright, I hope?"

"Lord Yoshimitsu?" she blinked, neck twisted for that flamboyant figure at her open doorway. "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be briefing the other Manji?"

"I wished to thank you for retrieving my blade." The figure flipped that _tsuka_ in its open hand. "How it wound its way in Vercci's vault again is rather peculiar. Perhaps Vercci's personal charge lives on even in this day and age. Anyway, I'm surprised you found it as quick as you did… as well as how quickly your _other_ half got so restless."

"Truth is, Lord Yoshimitsu," she sighed, "I didn't find your blade on my own. Someone else did the hard work for me… a certain someone I thought I'd never want to see again."

"Oh…?" the master's hot gaze appeared rather intent. "And whom might this person be, dear Misty-_kun?_"

"I'm sure you and the rest of the Manji heard about the XJ9 unit somewhere, yes?" she asked. "GRUXJ9 – better known by her human name, 'Jenny'."

"Yes, I've heard much word of such a sentient being." That cumbersome headpiece bobbed. "I'm surprised you met it before in the first place."

"We used to be friends." Again, she sighed. "Back when I lived overseas, I helped her take on the freaks that seemed to plague her city on a daily basis till we had a disagreement. She wanted to help from her own goodwill while I longed after a value more… _ecumenical._"

"Too much of anything may weaken everything, Misty-_kun_." Lord Yoshimitsu shook his headpiece. "What's important soon becomes overshadowed by convenience and greed. Is that why you fled America?"

"The only reason Jenny's not a heap of scrap is that no one paid me to do it." She said. "Looking back, it wasn't a good lifestyle, constantly fussing over my assets while always craving more. I'd be no better than the dead fool whose stash I plundered. We went our separate ways and never saw her again until today… or yesterday! Heck – I don't know anymore…!"

"That doesn't explain how your other half became riled." The master pressed. "For your safety and that of your fellow Manji, I need to know. You didn't have a problem until now, so what happened?"

"Back in the vault, one of Jenny's party…." She rubbed at her temple. "Some kid missing a head of hair and an eye, he saw I was the night spirit's own somehow! My eyes or my skin, I don't know either way – yet he pushed me with those damn questions! I was getting aggravated… and _it_ almost took control. The fact I was in the middle of a grotto didn't help, either…!"

"Don't get Misty-_kun_ angry indoors." The eccentric master noted. "Got it. I'll be sure to leave a note come later. But… do you've any idea what her party was doing in Vercci's vault to begin with? I thought the only ones who knew of it were us – that damn Voldo kept stealing the former Yoshimitsu's sword!"

"The nature of that one's questions," she shrugged, "they're looking for something called 'Soul Edge'—"

"_Soul Edge??_" the fickle master probably blinked. "Are you certain?"

"_Uh_ – yeah…." Her brow perked, suspiciously. "Why…?"

"So the Ultimate Weapon isn't as lost within history's endless volumes as I dismissed." The lord tapped at his visor, thoughtfully. "It's rather ominous if someone's questing after it, blindly. Who knows what terrors might be unleashed… which might better explain your temporary insanity!"

"What the hell…?" she blinked. "What're you going on about, Lord Yoshimitsu?"

"I assume your ears have never been tickled by 'Souls and Swords', yes?" the master asked, simply.

"No _duh!_" she swung her legs over her rounded edge of her bedspread; rough cold probed at her naked soles. "What does it have to do with anything…?"

"Originally created by human hands," Yoshimitsu said, "it was just an ordinary sword at first, but after being bathed in the blood of fierce hatred times too many to count, the sword was granted a soul of its own – a wicked soul of great Inferno. Those without a strong will are unable to escape its curse as its spirit invades the mind and drives its wielder mad. Its single eye burns fiercely with the regret of lost souls, but its blade shines with an icy gleam. It's evil to its very core, Misty_-kun_, perhaps rivaling the night spirit in sheer maliciousness."

"That's all well and good, but where does that leave me?" she asked. "What should I do about it, and if anything, do _with _it?"

"You said the one boy's questions refered to Soul Edge, correct?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "And…?"

"Misty-_kun,_" the lord said, "you might not like what I'm about to say, but I believe you should 'accompany' this Jenny on her travels—"

"_WHAT!?_"

"I knew you wouldn't like it." His snigger as odd as the digitizing made it. "But the world cannot withstand another terrible age as brought by the Evil Seed should they truly be after the Sword of Heroes… nor can you with your gifts."

"That doesn't explain why I should be with them or anywhere _near_ them!" she folded her arms, crossly.

"This Jenny doesn't sound like one who'd quest after the Soul Edge for no reason." The Lord sniggered. "There must be something more to it. I'd like you to find that reason, whether it be for personal gain or something else. Should she or anyone employing her wish to restore its terrible power, you're to sabatoge those efforts at all costs.

"Perhaps if memory of the sword were to fall back into obscurity, your other half might settle down…!"

Silence deafening grew fat between them; perhaps the fickle master was onto something…!

"Are you sure, Lord Yoshimitsu…?" she asked.

"Nothing in life is decided until its very end." The master noted. "I cannot be sure, but it's better than letting your gifts atrophy in here. Now get yourself clean and dressed. The morning mess is almost over."

"Okay, okay…." She uplifted to her numbing feet resigned. "Have it your way, why don't you. But there's something I'd like to ask you."

"You may ask me anything you wish, child." Lord Yoshimitsu said, casually. "Let not this façade best you lest you be an advisary. But come, what do you wish to know?"

"Your clan, the Manji." She said. "You live in this cavern of this mountain, deep within the surrounding woods, living in complete secrecy and whatnot. No one really knows of you or your party and prefer to keep it that way, it seems. But back when Tanaka-_san_ saved me from that distrought freak, why didn't he kill me… or that man?"

"Forgotten my lectures, too?" the warble ensuing digital, it kept not the master from his chuckle. "It seems Atsuko-_san's_ not alone. Like I've told you before – only those without courage oppress the weak. Likewise, a weed that doesn't grow needs not to be cut down."

"If I may be frank," she let her eyes roll, "you didn't answer my question. Why did Tanaka_-san_ save me – better yet – why didn't _you_ cut me down? You saw what is inside me, slithering around like the '_Orochi'_ of your legends. An utter mistake, just another cursed soul of the night spirit – I'd only bring you trouble… practically like everyone else."

"A worthless soul, the night spirit is." The master shook its headpiece. "It's rarely said that it's a corrupted spirit of a priestess once beautiful and vain from a cult of a planet far away. Caught in the grip of a terrible panic, her soul could not pass to the afterlife, becoming more corrupted as the ages pass. Heaven's net is wide but lets nothing through, I'm afraid.

"But you… you and the night spirit are not one in the same, should you choose to believe it. The night spirit forever trapped within its malicious pathos while fate granted you an inescapable choice – an existence of life and honor or one of destruction and death. You are nearing the crossroads of your destiny, and I feel as though it became my place to guide you before you stepped foot on your own."

Her hand pressed against her chest, letting sink that subtle warmth. Through her leotard, she could almost feel her heart jump into her palm. Lord Yoshimitsu, fickle as was he, yet could truth – _did_ truth solidly ring from his words? She did not know….

The master ridiculously flamboyant casually turned on his sandals for the rounded doorway.

"Before I leave you to yourself, I leave you one last morsel for meditation." Blindly, he spoke. "There's not much difference between heroes and madmen – neither blessing nor a curse. Everything for which each fights, it all depends… on _how_ you embrace it!"


	26. Chapter XXVI

XXVI

Hovering over the alleyway's cobblestone, a scene almost made as the lumbering oaf took to crouch intent, Hell's Grand Duke sat fixed with the sliver of scrap within its fussing hands. Half an Earth hour possibly passed, the sun shifting its way, subtly, it did not matter to Nyx. The thick, cool shade was more than what for he could ask.

"Tell me, Astaroth." Nyx simply said. "What exactly are you doing…?"

"Shut it!" the golem snapped. "For this to work, I need absolute concentration…."

"If you were to actually clue me in," he let his eyes roll; it was becoming a habit, "I could be of some use. _Pf –_ like I'm useless in the first place. Yeah right…!"

"This isn't something a newcomer to Souls and Swords would know." Astaroth said. "Fragments appearing no different from those in a salvage yard, a possible fragment of Soul Edge needs to be appraised. I have to test it somehow."

"Explain yourself, Astaroth." He frowned. "Your instinct advised you to head for that temple, urged you to beeline for one of those plaques above the columns – _demanded_ you rip off the _most_ important sliver of that plaque before this city's authorities arrived. After that had passed, you mean to tell me you're not sure?"

"Typical newcomer." The hunched cloak mumbled. "You just don't understand these things till you're deep in the abyss. Gems and other precious stones have the tendency to inherit traits of other minerals surrounding them, if I recall, correctly – yes…?"

"You know of other things outside of cracking skulls?" he blinked. "_Whoa –_ isn't _this_ a surprise…!"

"You're about to _know_ Kulutues in a minute!" the cloak snarled. "As I was saying, crystals tend to absorb traits of surrounding minerals, right…?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "And…?"

"Edge fragments are almost the same." Continued the golem. "Around other metals or objects, its aura tends to spread to them. A few objects may resonate the same spirit energy, may have similar effects yet one or none could be Soul Edge fragments."

"So the trip to the temple could be for naught." He frowned again. "This is all we need…!"

"So far, yeah…." The thick cowl bobbed. "Don't hold it against me. I felt something familiar, and I just had to jump at it."

"Yeah, I remember!" he sighed. "Almost brought the whole city down on us, too."

"Oh sure – like these little 'disguises' of yours were inconspicuous…!"

"Big word there, Astaroth." He chuckled. "Sure your brain isn't hurting?"

"Kulutues can make sure yours will!" it snapped, unrolling from its hunch all the while. "Stop acting like I'm a damn idiot all the time!"

"But you leave yourself wide open." He grinned. "I just have to give you a prod."

"Fine, then!" Astaroth's cloak wisped across his face as it turned around, heatedly. "Since you act like you're so frigging smart, why don't _you_ tell me what's up!? What's our next move – do you even _know!?_"

"Actually, my simple friend," he nodded, "I do have a heading I'd like to test."

"Alright, Boss." Flesh around those dull orbs of curdling milk stretched and creased. "Lay it on me."

"The sliver you removed may or may not be a true fragment but its still contains it aura. Does that ring true?" he asked.

"Yeah." The hood bobbed. "And…?"

"Can you tell the effects of a true shard from a counterfeit, differently?" he pressed.

"Yes." The golem agreed. "What're you getting at?"

"Astaroth, you're so simple." He laughed. "For any contaminated shards we come across, I propose a simple test. Using a hapless, witless _volunteer,_ you can see for yourself whether a fragment in question is Soul Edge's or not. Meanwhile, we'll continue to collect as many shards and fragments using the one we have and you yourself."

"Interesting idea." Affirmed Astaroth. "Are you willing to travel to the ends of the Earth for it?"

"We've no other choice _but_ to." He said. "Time's always against us and rivaling parties are ahead, most likely. If you're done fussing with the shard, let's get a move on—"

In their stretch of alley from behind, a voice forced and hoarse demanded cessation! Challenging the very power prodigious of eternal night, had to turn on his heels for this dubious contender.

"_Hold IT!_"

Knee-high boots impossibly tight, the tacky fishnets could not contain the sheer mass of those fat thighs of green scales…! Neither disease nor flaky flesh, it was rather _reptilian_. That disgustingly tight tank top could barely contain its bosom large and able bodied; a single breast could pop the cloth by the simplest of flexes. Its head a pustule ready to pop by that choker, the stupid cap with single spire would not contain that burst. Pupils dark slits locked, perpetually in a glare, it seemed the odd creature meant a sort of business.

A concern of business for he could rather care less.

"Yes…?" he blinked. "May I help you…?"

"Yeah!" it forcefully spoke, femininity but a hint. "I'm wondering if you guys know a good bar 'round these parts? Me and the gals are new to this chunk of the planet, after all."

"I don't believe you'll find one in the alleyways." He shrugged. "Have you tried near the Taksim Square? I'm sure there's a place that may serve alcohol."

"I guess that works." S/he – _it _shrugged. "You guys have some bank you could spare for an Orion's Angel like me, would you…?"

"Actually, no." he said. "We've no money at all. Wherever we go, we walk… or in Astaroth's case, _hop_."

"Yeah…." S/he frowned. "See, that really doesn't work for me or the gals. It's been a long drive from the other side of the planet, and we're just not in the mood for the word 'no'. So just pony up whatever you have, and this'll go nice and easy for both of us."

Its green, pudgy digits snapped; several more freaks of similar species rounded the corner just behind it. Dressed in similar garb, bedecked by each one's personal sense of style, yet most wore a tacky cap of single spire except the unfortunate naked, chained to the first by the choker. A grungy grouch, a massive, token oaf, and one somewhat a dame neither repulsive nor fair – all in search of fresh conflict, the fates conspired this confrontation for a reason of which he was at a loss.

Astaroth stepped a boot forward with a huff; his hand met the golem's chest.

"Like I've said before, we've nothing of value to offer you." He smirked. "We're new in town, as well. But since you've come all this way, I feel you all deserve some consolation.

Hand at the golem's chest, he simply upturned his palm.

"Astaroth." He grinned. "The fragment, if you please…."

---

City ancient of robust walls of stone, it had been easy getting lost within its winding, stoic embrace. The only thing of what she could certain was that large dome of gold had to be some sort of focal point for the native, walking bags of meat. Either those darkly dressed with the hats of round bills or those loosely swathed wearing patterned blankets atop their heads, Vexus did not care in the slightest.

_Nyx is out on this mud ball somewhere…_ It was her ghost's current process. _I have to settle the score! And perhaps this 'Soul Edge' could be the key – _my_ key…!_

Her farewells beckoned, meat bag Murad humorously waving the wrong way, the country of Iraq choked on the dust and grit in her wake, odd sword in hand. It may not have been much compared to a plasma blaster, but it will have to do until something better her way came. Iraq's police services along with Skyway Patrol possibly on her trail, Murad had tossed her a black, full-body gown that draped over every extremity – even her mask!

Certainly, she gave the locals from Mosul on west a heck of a show once her brand new wings parted on their first spread.

Now her boots touched her down here, in this winding labyrinth of imposing walls of similar stone. It took an act of the Cabinet for her to find a decent heading.

Even with city contemporary beyond the walls away an arm's throw, almost every structure had been dappled in primitive glyphs, characters no more than three strokes of the brush, mostly square, and had the tendency to read from right to left – so watching the locals' eyes told her. A computer shop had been not far off, thankfully; the proprietor certainly would be a little more than miffed after missing a couple of language disks.

Local language acknowledged and understood somewhat; a newspaper square on its rack gave her a byte to process as by she passed it. Once a temple in mud ball's antiquity, today but a museum in a city hailing far away, it had been crudely vandalized by fire and forced removal of an ancient plaque. No damage truly permanent, it could be repaired sometime within this mud ball's week, though that same plaque might take longer.

It was missing a sliver…!

Her destination set, the mud ball's city of Istanbul within the territory of dubious "Turkey"… she would have to make it out of this maze, firstly! She was certain she circled that looming dome of gold sometime before, shortly.

"Damn it!" she cussed, quietly; walls looming as these, they surely had tympanums or ears. "I've been going in circles for the past hour! Where the heck am I?"

"You are wherever you're to be, _'almah._"

Behind, someone cutely mused; she turned on her heels to see a simple old meat bag sitting on a bench, flashing her his small cap of black whilst gnarled, shaky hands fiddled with the cigarette between his loose, pursing lips. Weathered, weary eyes rolled for her, cynically.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she frowned from the safety of her veil.

"It can mean whatever the _dreck_ you want it to mean." The loose sack of flesh sighed. "Do your own thinking and make the nexus yourself. If you don't want to heed the words, I don't really care. We've free choice – _you_ make a decision."

"My, aren't you the chipper one?" she chuckled. "What made your day so damn bright? A bad day at the office?"

"Bad day…?" the old coot blinked. "I used to have bad days…. I used to have bad days when several sheep kept wandering away from the flock, when I had to break their hind legs and carry them until they didn't wander anymore. I used to have bad days when the tax collector came knocking on my door. I used to have _bad days…_ when the powers that be put Herod in charge. So if those were bad days, then what kind of day is this?"

"Apparently, a bright day." She said. "Your sun is high and shining with hardly a cloud in the sky, though I process – _THINK _– I _think_ this land's due for some rain come the next few days."

"Don't play dumb with me now." The coot further creased its already furrowed brow. "Don't mistake seniority for senility. Underestimate your enemy and you die! You should certainly know better, right, Cluster _denizen…?_"

Murad's blade beneath the cloak at her side, she could not get to it. With clusters of various meat bags caught in the midst of coming and going, a ridiculous scene was not was she needed. Already, she caught a male giving her an awkward eye as it rounded the angled corner.

"Self conscious are we?" the old and dying animal asked. "Perhaps it would do you best if you were a little more."

"Damn it!" she cussed again; the coot's weary glare narrowed. "How'd an old timer like you _possibly know…?_"

"With ears and a long memory as sharp as mine," embers on his chute crawled closer to those loose lips, "hardly a thing can get past me. My hearing isn't what it once was, but only the dead couldn't hear the racket you were making, Ms. Metal _Shoes!_"

"That doesn't mean a thing!" she snapped. "My boots have metal in them – so what?"

"Metal shoes, yes." The old timer said. "But a certain _clanking_ I caught while you stand in front of me, a low buzzing in your voice, a voice that just has to be digitized, and those eyes… only an idiot wouldn't see that you're of the robotic persuasion. Considering little of Earth technology has the capability for such complexity, the epitome of it probably off on some crazy adventure, it would lead me to believe that you're not of this world at all. Ten to one, I'd bet my shekels on Cluster Prime."

She huffed.

"Then again, I did catch word of a mutiny all the way up there." The bag of dying meat said. "Something about its monarchy being deposed in favor of some form of representative republic or of the like. Due to circumstances, I guess you're living in exile. You must've been elite or high in the former chain of command, we're you not?"

"You could say that…." She sighed. "And keep your voice down!"

"Earth still isn't over the Cluster's last 'police action'." It nodded. "Especially the States! Making this planet's dying superpower look like the bunch of fools everyone else believed they were. _Ken_… they're not happy at all. For showing up at the last minute – so-called 'dereliction of duty', they almost had the GRUXJ9 terminated."

"Gee, what a 'shame' _that_ would be…." She groaned.

"So you don't like the GRUXJ9." It nodded. "You _must've_ been high up in the Cluster monarchial government. Typical imperialist. Why can't you just let others exist the way they choose – are your kind that much of total control freaks?"

"We _did_ whatever the monarchs _told_ us to do." She sighed, wisely, tacitly. "They put you in charge of a unit, they put weapons in all our hands – even _mine _– and we asked, 'how many'! If we didn't, we were the ones they shot at instead. I lost my partner that way…! He just didn't… _do_ what was 'expected' of him."

She would have grinned, but this sack of meat… aged proportionally to his years and even beyond yet those senses are faultlessly sharp. She would have to be more than careful.

"You starting to bore me, denizen." The coot frowned. "As much as I would like to believe that, I cannot. I've lived far too long to not to know when I'm being lied to. Fool me once, shame on you – fool me twice, shame on me. Much as I would like to continue this banter, I'm afraid I've other things that better need my attention. I'd better head for the _shuk_ before all the _coos-coos_ is gone…!"

Smoldering embers but a digit's width from those loose lips, gravity had them meet the cobblestone walk in half a second's time. The dying meat bag smothered them with his shoe, wisps of fleeting gray a farewell wave. It did not take long for the olden flesh wearer to lift himself off the bench, making his slow way against the filtering crowd already.

"A purposeless life." The coot muttered, bitterly. "Almost the same as being deceased…! So much for the prophets and the evangelical nuts, _HaShem's_ long since abandoned His creation. If I knew He wasn't coming back, I should've run myself through with that sliver of sword I'd found—!"

"_Rega!_" her database recalled, holding up a hand. "_REGA!_ _Mah atah meetkaven?_"

"Trying to blend in, are you?" the meat bag scoffed. "You'll never get far with that digital reverb."

"Sliver of sword, you said." She said. "What did you mean by that?"

"Sliver of a sword long since forgotten by man and history." The weathered piece of flesh mused. "Yet should one seek to restore its terrible power, it never fails to make another appearance. Corpses of the unfortunate its undulated path, horrible terrors lie in its wake. Though through the unspeakable madness burdened by every swipe of the blade, its purified counterpart will not be far behind. The waltz of endless strife continues."

"You're speaking of Soul Edge, aren't you?" She sternly said. "If you know more about it, tell me. Dead ends aren't really my desire."

"Cluster denizen in search of the Sword of Dubious Salvation?" the coot blinked. "Why…? What's your outfit?"

"I seem to be the dope banished here to aid this worthless mud ball." She shrugged. "It could be worse. Would you rather some _other_ being retrieved it, praying he's not a bigger threat than I?"

"_Shtup._" It cussed, most likely. "What the hell are you babbling about?"

"If you don't want to help me – fine." She frowned. "I don't really care anymore. I'll just find it another way. Thanks for nothing, meat person!"

Away she turned on her heels, heading for wherever this winding stretch would lead. The coot knew something, definitely, something she would probably need; there had to be a way to coax. If not… this city had plenty of flesh wearers adorned with similar attire. Would the authorities in the load-bearing vests blink twice if they missed one who had a few years left?

_I don't process so._

"_Rega, _denizen!" that meat bag called. "_Rega!_ Where do you think you're going so damn fast?"

"Why, I'm going to find Soul Edge before some _other_ beats me to it." She called back, blindly. "Go off and have this _'coos-coos'…_ or whatever. I'll be fine on my own."

"You probably don't know what it looks like." It argued, gently. "How do you expect to find something like that? Your journey into dark territory has 'red herring' written all over it!"

"So you _do_ know something after all!" she frowned. "Spill it!"

"I'm afraid I can't." it said, simply.

"Why _not!?_" again, she spun around; a growl found itself caught in her speaker. "'Crisis of conscience' is not a good answer!"

"You really are serious about finding this blade, aren't you?" it noted aloud, needlessly. "A Cluster denizen focused on something other than galactic conquest, I thought I would never see that day, and I've serious time on my hands. 'Oodles' would be an understatement."

"This is getting ridiculous!" she frowned. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Alright." It tossed up a hand. "If you're serious of finding the Sword of Salvation, then join me for lunch."

"Lunch?" she blinked.

"Even a man as old as me has got to eat." It chuckled. "It is said about breaking bread with strangers somewhere, either _Torah _or _Tenach_. I've stopped caring since the Intergalactic War, yet come anyway. Break bread with me."

"As you wish." She said. "I could use a shot of lube myself – but this better not be a façade! Intimidating as the authorities in the dark vests are, I can handle up to twelve after my latest upgrade."

"Number of divine order, if I'm not mistaken." The coot shrugged. "I don't care anymore. Anyway, let's get going before the local Arabs get upset. Jewish man converses with a female in Muslim garb…. Despite the formality, if that doesn't start a riot then I don't know what will."

"Whatever you say." She shrugged. "Let's get going."

---

Finally docked somewhere on the Golden Horn, Jenny's knee-highs clanked her down the narrow ramp behind her motley crew. Thin boards underfoot groaning creaking by her every step, it was a miracle none of them snapped; the churning water below trapped between the hull and the dock, yet it lapped at her, hungrily. The process of gracing even one of the three surged within her, wrongly.

"Come on, Jen!" Bradley called. "Let's get going. Daylight's a wasting!"

"Bradley…!" a buzzing in her head while around her sockets her eyes took a lap. "Some of us here aren't exactly _buoyant!_ One step wrong – I'm good as totaled."

"And just whose fault is that?" Brad inquired. "Is it our fault Wakeman didn't bother to waterproof you? No, it is not! Now, will you come on? That ramp can probably handle a hundred people coming and going."

"But can it handle someone who's their combined weight in one, slow-moving mass?" Sheldon asked. "What if it doesn't? Do you really want to spend the rest of the day just fishing her out?"

Breeze gentle brushed at her tympanums and nothing else; a smile tugged at her lips, softly.

"We can leave that for Captain Casque and crew." She shrugged. "Maybe even Brittany and Tiffany. Speaking of which, I haven't seen them at all. Where the heck they've been all morning?"

"The cabin, where else?" Brad shrugged. "Probably getting ready for another shopping spree despite the injuries, by the looks of it."

"I actually talked with Tiff at breakfast." Sheldon noted. "She and Brit wanted to do something for you tonight after saving their skins from that zombie pirate. A makeover, some clothes, or what have you. Whatever it is, I think you might like it."

"Are we really certain that they've changed?" she asked, honestly. "Or is this another one of their cute little setups? If I find out they'll just toss a rat in my shell, I'm going to be a little more than miffed!"

"I wouldn't worry 'bout it, Jen." Shell said. "I believe that Tiff's changed for the better. Brittany, on the other hand, I'm not so sure. Maybe she'll come around after she fully recovers."

"Heck, if I'm certain." She shrugged as her wide soles finally scratched at the firm cement. "Anyway, where's our car at?"

Flanking the ramp sat that very car, taking acts of God and Congress alike to have it moved from cargo to the dock. The crewmen clustering and scattering way from deck to dock, it had been quite the production. Their labor bore little fruit when that set of black rubber finally touched cement; soon, Captain Casque had hailed them for some other wicked task for which anyone could not care less.

Square on its four rubbery feet stood the beast of burden for the day. Seats for four, possibly a fifth should someone unexpectedly tag along, all encased within a body of panels accessed by a pair of doors. No longer than a couple meters, width a little over half of it, it appeared to be like any other vehicle on the road; Jenny did have to wonder, concerning herself.

"Suspension better not be bedsprings." She mumbled.

"Don't worry 'bout it, Jen." Bradley said, nonchalantly. "With your alloys, it should be no problem. Just let your cares melt away while I'm behind the wheel – enjoy the ride!"

Weathered loafers carried him for that coveted side, the vehicle welcoming him by a wide open door. Limbs absconded from open view, she still could see Bradley fiddling with the driver's visor – something shiny falling into an open hand from that movable flap. Hands hidden below the dashboard, shoulders taking turns peaking and falling… nothing happened.

"So what're we supposed to do again, Brad?" Sheldon made his way for the slumbering beast.

"Just… shut up." The auburn bared his grinding teeth. "Stupid piece of—! When I turn your key – _you_ START! Not a debate, just _do IT!_"

"Gee, hot shot!" Shell peered inside, giving his head a simple shake. "Maybe the fact that it's _manual_ has something to do with it?"

"What??" Brad's large eyes boggled. "Manual?"

To his right and down, Brad stole a glance; even her tympanums could catch the bang of his forehead on the steering wheel. She could not help but let out a giggle.

"Great!" Maybe Brad should have cussed. "Just great…! This is all we need."

"Calm down, Bradley." Shell groaned. "Nothing's for naught just yet. Other options still remain open."

"What?" Brad lifted his head straight. "Can you drive a stick, Sheldon?"

"Lord no!" the Asian eased back a step. "I tried that only once. It got really ugly and I almost killed myself. Besides which, I don't even have my license yet. But I can think of someone here who could pass himself off as competent – rather _her_self…!"

Eyes few around rolled for her; a simple blink was her only reply.

"Oh, Jenny…!" Bradley called. "We've a little favor to ask…!"

"Who," she shook her head, "me…? Oh – ho… _no!_ Not me! I'm not piloting that thing! I don't have a license either – who knows what kind of trouble we could get!"

"We're not asking you to drift race, Jen." Bradley stuck his head out the odd doorway. "Just to drive us around town, discreetly."

"With other groups looking for Soul Edge," Sheldon noted, "numerous reports of a six-foot mechanical Galatea is the last thing our party needs. I'm sure there's a 'read-me' or a mpeg of working a stick shift somewhere in your ROM, right?"

"Right, but still—!"

"Thank you, Jenny!" Bradley shot an arm out the window. "Catch!"

A flick of the wrist, a bit of a twist, she caught the glint incoming in her POV. Twinkling in the sunlight, growing from speck to a hearty sliver, its crown struck her as black and shaped like a rounded rectangle; her digits snatched it easily by that crown. Processes many peaking and dipping, all erratic much like the jagged sliver in hand, what good could come from this little foray…?

Resigned to fate that her 'buddies' had in store, she let out a sigh.

This_ is going to be fun…!_

---

"What do you know?" she chuckled. "This _is_ kind of fun!"

Lever underfoot at her left depressed, ball in hand shifting slightly up-right, Jenny could not help but quench a little more of the thirst of the beast under the hood. She turned the tight, stony corner by practiced ease of an experienced; the mpeg in the back of her head a great help, after all. To process she had never tried something common as driving anytime before, she should have kicked herself!

"Yeah – that's great, Jen!" Bradley beside held the small handle overhead quite fast. "Do you mind slowing _down…?_ You've kind of a lead foot."

A sigh, she let her brow kink, cynically.

"Oh – right!" Bradley's free hand met his crown with a slap. "Boots are metal…."

"Jenny!" Sheldon yelped from behind, from his curling cower. "Isn't there something in your ghost 'bout the road rules? This seems to be cutting it a little too close!"

"Relax, Sheldon." She downshifted, easily. "Everything I need to acknowledge is in my ROM. Laws local, state, and federal – even international, it's all up here. Contrary to what you're believing, I _am_ going the local speed limits."

"Speed's not the only thing to worry 'bout!" Shell said, loudly. "This isn't the autobahn – it's Istanbul! Cramped roads, pedestrians everywhere, not to mention we don't even know the road itself! Many of these are cobblestone, Jenny, not asphalt and cement – been here since God knows when. What happens if you lose control? We can't afford to pay for damages regardless of what we found in that money pit!"

"I _am_ in control, so don't worry 'bout It." She frowned. "I've GPS functionality in my basic OS just so Mom could find me if I suddenly shut down – I'm using it right now to find our destination. Traffic, road work, accidents, and closures, all cross referenced with local radio chatter, it's not a problem."

"Speaking of destinations." Rolling for the trunk of another car, Bradley took in a breath as soon as her boot eased off the gasoline. "Where the heck _are_ we going in the first place?"

"Schwartz gave us a hint in the money pit." She said. "It took a casual talk with Captain Casque to fill in the blanks. It seems we're going to a museum."

"Another museum?" Bradley moaned. "Gee – I wonder what fun, little _game_ Solomon's going to play _this_ time…! Attack of the axe-bearing lizard men perhaps?"

"Solomon's still aboard the Adrian II, tending to Brit and Tiff's wounds." She said. "No cute, little pop quizzes at all, though he'd like to know what we find today."

"So what is this museum, Jenny?" Sheldon asked. "Is it the one I'm thinking of, already?"

"Depends on what you're thinking." She shrugged. "I'm processing over the one sitting somewhere on this Golden Horn that used to be an interesting church before it became a mosque and then a museum. I'm sure you've heard of it somewhere before, haven't you, Shell?"

"The Hagia Sophia?" those wide, dark eyes grew in the mirror rearview. "Are you really serious?"

Her boot fed the beast a bit more sustenance is midst of a gentle nod.

"Serious as sludge in my pacemaker." She let her eyes roll for her edge of the windshield. "And that over there… should be it!"

---

(That is it; I am out of chapters in reserve, so don't expect updates until I've finally gotten around to penning more satisfactory chapters. Speaking of which, words in of themselves seem to fail me, at the moment, stagnating the still-water of my mind. I need motivation... inspiration to help me continue! Should you, readers, have any ideas, lay them upon me in a review; I'll be here, knocking sense back into my head in the meanwhile.

(-Uzziel-)


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